The Tales of the Enigmatic Detective and his Beloved Blogger
by mmolinari
Summary: What if Sherlock and John had met in a different way- let's say, with John on the wrong side of the law? This is an AU fic that tells the story with a completely different plot but mostly the same characters (besides the bad guys). No Johnlock, but a whole lot of fluff and adorable friendshipness in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Please enjoy!**

 **The Case of the Soggy Pedophile**

Sharp metal. The overbearing scent digging into my nostrils, gun smoke mixing with a darker, more rancid smell- blood. It flows out onto the sidewalk, staining everything a deep crimson. The gun in my hand, the metal still warm, a puff of smoke still drifting up. The bang still resonating in my ears.

Ringing, so loudly. The pavement blurs and gets lighter, brighter, _softer._ The sands of Afghanistan. Shouting surrounds me, deep crimson turning the sand into mud, too much blood, an impossible amount. I press my hand against the wound but there's too much, flowing through my fingers, staining the ground with red…

I am falling, my hands are on the solid pavement below _it's not real, it's not real_ but the bullets are whizzing past me, bombs are going off in the distance, throwing sand and shattered bodies into the air.

I lift my hands and they're stained with red, the liquid pooling around me, still warm from him. A sob catches in the back of my throat. I killed him. I can still remember that moment in Afghanistan when I realized I'd be taking lives as much as I saved them- and _it didn't bother me anymore_.

The panic attack is full-fledged, racing heart, rapid breaths. My mind spinning and of course the flashbacks. Knowing the symptoms does nothing to help me as I crouch in the pool of warm blood, my chest heaving as it struggles to get enough air. This is what the doctor was telling me about PTSD my mind blankly registers.

The blood soaked sand slowly transforms into blood soaked pavement. I stand on unsteady feet, a deafening ringing filling my ears. I retrieve the gun from beside me, hastily wiping the incriminating liquid on it on my trousers. My gaze avoids the body beside me, the body I had just shot.

This thought threatens to overtake me again, so I step away and take some deep steadying breaths of damp London air. I'm suddenly glad for the gloom the approaching storm clouds cast over the city, less chance of people seeing me, at least the small amount of people that are still out at this time of night (now morning?)

My thoughts are flying so fast that I almost leave the scene as is- covered in my finger prints with a bullet from my military-issued gun. The soldier inside me kicks in and I turn back, pushing away any thoughts that do not involve cleaning up the crime scene. _The crime scene._ I take another deep breath and approach it again.

My shaking fingers close around the shell casing and a few moments later the bullet. Through and through, a clean shot. Not surprising considering the close range. The rain should take care of the rest I think to myself, looking up at the heavy clouds. The weather is fitting for a murder.

I force that thought right out of my head; my next step is to get home. I turn out of the alley, making it to the end before I realize I'm missing something- my cane. My leg starts hurting right on cue- _huh maybe it is psychosomatic._ Maybe I should have listened to my therapist before I went around killing people.

I limp down the dim streets, my senses heightened, the gun tucked into my waist band. I realize belatedly that I'm probably covered in his blood, but there's not like there's anything I can do about it. Thankfully the few glances I catch of people are movements in the shadows, people who aren't the type to go to the police _. People like me now_.

Somehow I make it back to my crummy apartment, my leg ready to give out. _Where had I left my cane?_ It must have been in that café before I laid eyes on him. I had just run out of there, I'm not even sure if I had paid my bill.

I can barely get my key into the door my fingers are trembling so badly. I can see in the early morning light that my hands are caked in dried blood. The wound in my shoulders aches more than it had since the day I got it. The key finally slides in and I slam the door shut behind me, dead bolting it for good measure.

It all hits me once I reach safety. I slide to the floor with my back against the door. My entire body shakes. I spend the morning staring at my blood stained hands, frozen to the spot. I miss my therapy session.

"Boring."

"Sherlock please."

"Lestrade, this case is _at most_ a 3. I refuse to leave my house unless it's above a 6."

"Look, we're out of leads, we need for you to come and take a look. It rained last night washing away most of the evidence."

"I am _perfectly aware_ that it rained last night."

"Sherlock… please?"

Deep sigh. " _Fine_ , I'll be there in ten."

Sherlock glares at the crime scene. Of all the boring cases, this could quite possible be the most boring. A single bullet, right through the heart. Clearly a trained arm, military maybe? The scene clear so the bullet casing was either washed away by the rain like the blood or taken by the murderer, the second more likely because it had only been a light drizzle, hardly enough to wash away a metal casing.

Sherlock approaches the body, completely ignoring Lestrade. All of a sudden _he_ shows up.

"Anderson what are _you_ doing here?"

"Investigating the crime scene," Anderson retorts with a sneer as if that is a particularly clever answer, which it probably is for him.

A familiar mass of black hair exits the nearest police car.

"Donovan, you too?" Sherlock says, giving Lestrade a despairing look which he just shrugs off.

"Hello, freak." With a smirk on her face. Sherlock knows just how to wipe off that smirk.

"Did you two enjoy each other's company last night?" He keeps an innocent face, holding in his laughter at Anderson's shocked expression.

"How did you?" he stutters, his face turning red. Donovan rolls her eyes, but Sherlock notes the light flush running up her neck with satisfaction.

"You have two minutes," Lestrade calls out to him, looking ridiculous in the oversized crime scene scrubs. _Why must he always time me,_ Sherlock asks himself. He pulls up his collar and whips out his magnifying glass, searching the body with more enthusiasm than is appropriate, especially for a 3.

"Have anything yet?"

Sherlock magnifies a patch on his shirt, "Right now seven… no eight ideas."

"Eight?"

Sherlock ignores him, lost in his mind palace. The pieces chink into place with a satisfying speed, it has been much too long since he has done this (he finished his last case 2 whole days before, a closed- door murder, always his favorite).

Sherlock straightens up, a smirk on his face. "His name is James Parkings, I believe he is better known as The Child Predator at the yard, having kidnapped, raped, and killed 15 confirmed children in the past 3 years. His killer has military training, probably just returned from Afghanistan or Iraq. He is most likely injured, traumatized by something that happened there, quite likely seeing a therapist who has diagnosed him with PTSD, quite correct I'm afraid. The person we're searching for knew who James Parkings was, but something made him go after him himself instead of calling the police…"

Sherlock slows his rapid deductions, so wrapped up in his thoughts that he doesn't notice the shocked (if not slightly disbelieving) faces of his peers- really you would think they would have gotten used to it by now. _What would make an ex- soldier, a man who has so far upheld and valued the law, go after and kill a serial rapist instead of consulting the police?_

"Oh," Sherlock says out loud, his eyes widening, "Oh that's interesting, very interesting!"

"What's interesting?" Lestrade's face is laughably bewildered.

Sherlock shakes his head, Lestrade's question knocking him out of his mind palace. He fixes his intense gaze on him, "What? Oh, just thinking of something from an old case… Now I really must be going, nice to catch up with you, George."

"Greg," Lestrade automatically corrects. Sherlock starts to walk away.

"Wait, Sherlock, you can't leave, you have to tell me all you know about the case!"

Sherlock shouts back at him, not bothering to turn around, "I already did. Just look for a soldier Lestrade, I'm confident you'll find him eventually!"

Lestrade calls his name one more time but the detective is already out of ear shot, letting his long legs carry him rapidly to god knows where. Lestrade sighs, running a hand through his graying hair, that egotistical bastard will be the last of him.

He turns to Donovan, "Report to Jones that we've found James Parkings."

"Sir, you're really going to believe the freak over there? He…"

"Just do it, Donovan."

She closes her mouth, a sour look on her face, but she makes the call anyway. Lestrade looks back down at the body. Now that he knows who it is he can recognize the sharp angles of his thin face, now covered by a thick beard that he must have grown out to keep cover. Whoever this soldier is, he did the world a real favor by taking this guy out.

The last thing John Watson feels he did the world was a favor. He had killed a man, not a particularly nice man, his mind reminds him, but still. He had killed a completely defenseless man that he could have easily taken out through different methods. He is a trained soldier for crying out loud, his limp and bullet wound certainly hadn't stopped him from chasing after the guy, it wouldn't have stopped him from subduing him and contacting the police.

John scrubs his stained trousers for the third time today, the pinkish liquid dripping down the rusted drain. No matter how hard he scrubs, the blood refuses to be removed. The knees have bright red patches from when he kneeled beside the body. The skin on his hand is rubbed raw from trying to remove the blood.

Suddenly there is a knock on the door (the bell had never worked). John drops the pants in the sink, grabbing the sides as panic overtakes him. No one visits him; this has to be the police. _How had they found him already?_ He hastily pushes the pants into his overflowing dirty laundry basket, excuses for the blood running through his mind.

"I'm coming," he calls out, silently cursing himself for the way his voice trembles, betraying his guilt. He pushes the now cleaned gun back into the drawer, shoving a notebook on top. He gives one more glance around the room, checking for any signs of the incident and then goes to the door.

He plasters the biggest smile that he can manage onto his face (which looks more like a grimace), takes a steadying breath, and then opens the door.

"John!" yells a high pitched voice and before he knows it a brown haired woman is throwing herself on him and clutching him like she's afraid he might disappear. Thankfully, Harry is sobbing too hard into John's shirt to notice his shocked (and slightly wild) expression.

It takes a moment for John to recover and realize that he should probably say something.

"What's wrong, Harry?" John peels the sobbing mess out of his arms and closes the door to the overcast London sky behind her.

"It's Clara… She's- she's gone John, she left me." Harry's body shakes with another sob and she blindly makes her way to crumple up on John's beaten up sofa.

John is completely unprepared for this. Between the army, dealing with PTSD, and now the fact that he is a murderer, Clara and Harry's deteriorating relationship somehow hasn't crossed his mind in a while.

"I'm so sorry," John says, approaching his sister as if she is some kind of wild animal liable to strike at any moment, "Can I get you anything?"

"Wine." She is still curled up in a ball so the word comes out muffled but John understands it well enough.

He sighs, "Harry…. You've been sober for 3 months now; don't let this bring you back-"

"I need wine John!" Harry shoots up, looking like she might slap John but decides on different approach. Her shoulders slump, her head lowers and she speaks softly, "Only for today… Please, all I can think about is her."

"Harry, I'm not going to let you go down that road again," John says softly but firmly, watching Harry carefully.

At first he thinks he's won then a flip switches and he sees the other side of Harry, "All I asked you was for some _goddamn wine_ John is that too much to ask? Here I am with my heart _breaking_ coming to _you_ of all people for help and you're turning me away yet again. You think I don't know why you went into the army, don't say some patriotic bullshit I know you went to leave me. You couldn't handle poor alcoholic Harry, ripping her life apart. Well I'll tell you what John, you can stay the _hell_ away from my life and I will stay away from yours!"

"Harry…"

"No John, just stop. Don't pretend you care."

Harry is breathing heavily, staring at John with wild eyes, completely unhinged. John wants to stop her, wants her to believe in him, wants her to know that he cares about her so much that it hurts, but he doesn't know how. He can't help but thinking she is right, he had done this to her, he had failed her.

After a long silence where John fails to find words, Harry shakes her head in disgust. "Well I was going to give this to you as a gift, but I doubt you would accept anything from me, so here you go. Do what you wish with it, burn it, I don't care I just don't want to see it again just like I don't want to see you ever again!"

The end of her rant rises into a yell and more tears spill down her face. She presses something into John's hand and storms out, slamming the door behind her before she can hear John's quiet plea of "Wait".

John lets out a deep sigh and looks down to Harry's gift. It is a smart phone and on the back the words "To Harry, Love Clara" are inscribed.

John considers going after her, in fact one time he makes it out of his apartment before changing his mind and returning to the flat. He paces the cramped room a few times, tidying up anything he can in his already neat apartment, before he returns to the pants. He tells himself he'll wait until Harry cools off, surely then she'll come back to him. He spends the rest of the day scrubbing the pants until his knuckles bleed.

Meanwhile, at flat 221B, Sherlock Holmes is well on his way towards crossing paths with John Watson. He'd contacted his homeless network to look around the area for cafes and other small public places and had even been desperate enough to contact Mycroft and get security footage from the surrounding streets.

Now all the information is stringed up on his wall. He has already found the murderer on the screen, the only problem is that he had kept his face pointed away from the camera and it had already been dark. His features are lost in shadow, but Sherlock can tell he is a shorter than average, maybe 5'5'', with a strong build. He had recently lost some weight, his clothes are slightly baggy.

Sherlock's eyes flick over the photos looking for any clues he could have missed. The tips of his fingers are pressed to his lips as if in prayer and only his eyes move for a number of minutes as he focuses on the evidence.

His eyes widen in recognition. He jumps over to his computer, knocking over a pile of papers and some glass tubes filled with mysterious liquids in his haste. He pulls up the security footage and sure enough there it is- the suspect going in with a cane and leaving in a run without the cane, without even a limp.

"The game is on!" Sherlock exclaims to no one in particular and snags his coat on the way out of his apartment.

John's stomach growls, reminding him that he hasn't eaten all day. He lowers the pants, flipping off the tap. The places on his hands where the skin had rubbed off sting. The pants still have a light stain on them that John considers a lost cause. He shoves them in the garbage, covering them with rubbish from the day before just in case. He cleans his cuts, the warm water washing more blood into his sink.

A few minutes later he is bandaged up and standing in the center of the room, at a loss for what to do. His stomach growls again and he walks over to the fridge to find it empty. _Great._ He wanders to the answering machine. 3 missed calls from his therapist and one message. He doesn't have the heart to listen to it now. If he faced her he might have a break down and just spill out what he had done, which would definitely be not good. John is going to try to stay out of prison for the longest he can.

John decides that now is as good a time as any to get his cane back. He grabs his wallet to find an alarmingly low amount of money in it. Nearly his entire army pension goes into rent; he needs to find another job. As if anyone would actually hire a PTSD stricken, crippled ex-soldier.

The walk to the café is long, especially because John forces himself to take back streets to avoid the crime scene. He doesn't see any flashing lights in the distance, but that doesn't mean that the police aren't there.

By the time John reaches the café his leg is aching. At least he will have his cane for the way back. John hesitates at the door; he doesn't exactly remember the state he had left the café the night before.

A baritone voice from behind him startles him from his thoughts, "Are you going in?"

John looks up at the stranger, "Oh yes, sorry."

He pushes open the door trying not to stare now that he has laid eyes on him. There is nothing particularly odd about his outward appearance but something throws John off. It has to be his eyes, he decides, the stranger has the most piercing eyes he has ever seen, half blue and half brown- heterochromia if John recalls correctly.

He steps away, forgetting the stranger when he lays eyes on the waiter.

"John!" the waiter exclaims, rushing over to him. _Here we go._

The waiter takes a small detour and grabs a familiar brown object. "You left your cane here yesterday!"

"Oh yes thank you, I was looking for that," John says, trying to keep the relief out of his voice. The waiter doesn't suspect anything.

"I'll sit you down in your normal spot."

"Thanks," John replies, leaning heavily on his cane as he follows the young man.

Still standing near the doorway, Sherlock watches this "John" limp over to his booth. The limp is definitely psychosomatic, but John was injured somewhere else in Afghanistan- the left shoulder if Sherlock had to guess.

The waiter comes back and sits him down a few tables away. He sits at the perfect angle to discretely study the target. John seems nervous, fiddling with the menu and glancing out the window every couple of minutes. Feeling guilty then.

Sherlock studies him through dinner, nibbling half- heartedly on his fries just to keep up appearances. John finishes fast and doesn't linger. He pays and stands, limping out of the restaurant and into the darkening street.

After a minute Sherlock throws a few pounds onto the table, mumbles, "Thanks," to the waiter, and follows John out. He sticks far behind, being careful not to underestimate his military training. He notes a candy store a couple of stores down, the perfect place for a pedophile to stalk out his next victim.

Sherlock is already certain he knows the whole story; he just wants to hear it from John. It is always entertaining to hear the criminals tell their versions of the story; maybe John will even put up a fight. Then Sherlock will call Lestrade and hand him his culprit nicely, with a few insults at his intelligence. Really a straight forward case, but the good citizen turned bad always puts an interesting twist on things.

John dodges down an alley a few meters ahead of Sherlock. He pauses, and then follows him in, letting his eyes adjust to the sudden darkness. He can no longer see John ahead of him. Sherlock quickens his pace. Just as he's passing a dumpster his neck prickles. Before he can react he is hit from behind.

He goes flying forward and an arm wraps around his neck, restraining him from behind. A small knife is pressed to his neck, nearly breaking the skin, a military knife. Sherlock curses himself for being caught off guard; he is never caught off guard. Maybe he had underestimated this soldier (and doctor, Sherlock deduces from the bandages on his hands and the way he holds the knife).

"Why are you following me?" the man hisses into his ear.

"Hello, John, going to kill me like you killed poor James Parkings?"

The arm holding him loosens slightly in shock, giving Sherlock just the leverage he needs. He knocks the blade out of John's hand, the blade barely nicking his neck and kicks backward. John stumbles back against the brick wall. Sherlock's fist flies towards his face but before it can make contact John ducks and gets a blow into Sherlock's stomach.

Sherlock jumps back to give himself time to recover. John's height gives him a small advantage, as well as his military training but Sherlock is quite sure he can overpower him using the strongest muscles in his body (his brain).

Just as expected, John goes for a kick again, launching himself off of his "bad" leg. Sherlock grabs it and pushes him down. John hits the ground hard. It knocks the breath out of him. Before he can recover his follower has him pinned down, his own knife pressed to his neck, his knee pinning down his legs, resting uncomfortably on his bad leg.

John looks up into those intense eyes, anger flaring through him. The stranger's wild black hair is messy from their brief struggle. His pupils are dilated and his eyes have a wild look to them, he is enjoying this.

"Who the hell are you?" John growls out, careful not to move his throat too much.

The stranger ignores him, "Why did you do it, John? Why wouldn't you call the police, surely taking the law into your own hands is not preferable for a soldier like you."

"Why do you want to know?" John struggles beneath him and Sherlock presses the knife harder against his neck (being careful not to put enough pressure to break the skin) and John goes still. His eyes, contrary to looking scared as Sherlock would have suspected, look angry. And maybe… excited?

"I suggest you answer my questions, John," Sherlock growls out in the lowest voice he can manage, sounding intimidating even to his own ears.

John hardly seems intimidated (definitely a new thing for Sherlock- he will have to add that to his Mind Palace and revisit it at a different time), but he answers the question regardless. "I recognized James Parkings, he had just been on the news for a kidnapping only a few hundred miles from London. I wasn't exactly sure it was him; he had grown out a beard. I thought calling the police would spook him if he really was James Parkings, so I decided to follow him."

"He went right to the candy shop and walked up to a little girl, she couldn't have been older than 6 or 7 and her parents weren't around. He looked like he was about to talk to her so I shouted his name. He looked up at me and immediately started running. I chased him into the alley and aimed my gun at him. He reached the end when a car backfired, it sounded like…"

John pauses, his eyes with a faraway look to them, "My brain took it as a bomb going off, like in Afghanistan, and I was brought back to it and by the time I snapped out of it he was dead and my gun was smoking." His voice had dropped to a whisper by the end, trembling nearly imperceptibly from the haunting memory.

His eyes meet Sherlock's again. Sherlock searches for any missing links, watching the evidence match up with the story in his mind palace. Everything fits, just as he had expected. A straightforward case. Now time to call Lestrade…

Suddenly Sherlock hesitates. It is not as if John had _meant_ to kill James Parkings, it had been his PTSD. Motive had never stopped him from making a conviction before, but this time something in Sherlock screams at him to stop.

The silence stretches on. Finally with a deep sigh, Sherlock pulls the knife away. John's eyes widen in surprise. Sherlock eases his weight off of John, taking care not to agitate his leg anymore, even if it is psychosomatic. John just lays there staring at him as he stands up. He offers his hand to John, and he takes it warily, standing and brushing himself off.

"Well then, I wish you a good day John…?"

"Watson," John fills in; still looking like his mind is catching up with events.

"John Watson," Sherlock repeats with a small nod and then turns away, pulling up his collar.

"Wait," John calls out, "Who are you?"

Sherlock turns with a mysterious smile, "Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective."

Then he is gone with the flash of his coat, leaving John standing there with a bewildered look on his face. It is a long while before he starts on his way home, his cane once again forgotten against the wall of the alley, this time for good.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. I am American so please forgive me for any mistakes I made regarding London and the correct use of words. Enjoy!

 **The Case of the Disappearing Bodies**

The woman walks down the empty streets. She mutters darkly under her breath, her plans have not been going her way. First it had started pouring on the way to the café during her break, effectively drenching her and ruining her brand new heels. Then she had lost an important document at work causing her boss to yell at her for so long that it eventually led to her missing the tram. And finally, because of the missed the tram, she had been forced to walk 10 blocks to her flat through puddles in the middle of the night.

A cab goes flying by, spraying water onto her. She swears loudly, close to tears. She approaches the alley leading to her street. It is dark, darker than normal. A street light is out on the other side. She hesitates, looking into the dim alley. She can barely make out the outlines of a trash can a few feet away from her; there could be anything in there.

 _Stop being so paranoid_ she tells herself. She starts forward, cautiously shuffling her feet so she doesn't trip on anything. Her pace picks up as she walks through. She hears a loud bang right behind her and breaks into a run, her heels clacking on the pavement. Suddenly her foot catches on something and she goes flying to the ground. There is a huge unmoving form below her.

She fumbles for her phone, her hands trembling so much that she can barely unzip her bag. Her breathing is coming out ragged. She hits the power button and it lights up. She lets out a high-pitched scream and struggles off of the ground, nearly hyperventilating.

There illuminated by the pale light of her phone is a body. The older man's face is as white as a sheet; through his stomach is a metal dagger, the blood from his chest spilling out onto the pavement below. The woman frantically tries to call 999. She stares at her phone in horror- no service.

Her heart hammers and her breaths quicken even more as she runs out of the alley. By the time she makes it to the nearest phone booth she is hysterical.

"999 what is your emergency?"

"I- there- he's dead ohmygod he's dead."

"Ma'am I need you to calm down; take some deep breaths for me. That's it. Now are you in danger?"

"No, I'm fine. But in the alley, please come, he's in there and there's a knife through his chest. Ohmygod, oh my god he's dead!"

"We'll be there in five minutes, just stay on the phone, alright?"

The woman nearly faints in relief when she sees the flashing lights in the distance. The squad car pulls up and a young female officer hops out. She walks over, "I am Officer Ryan. You can call me Jessica. You said you found a body?"

The woman nods hysterically, tears spilling down her face.

"Do you mind showing me where that is?" The woman's eyes widen, her breath picking up speed again, "It's okay," the officer reassures, "nothing will happen to you while I'm here."

The woman nods reluctantly and walks towards the alley, her entire body trembling. The officer follows, one hand holding a flashlight and the other one resting reassuringly on the weight of her service weapon.

They approach the start of the alley and the woman freezes, pointing into the dark, "In there." Her voice trembles. The officer shines her flashlight in, running it over the ground. It illuminates nothing but wrappers and other trash. She looks at the woman who is staring into the alley with a terrified expression, "But that's impossible, it was right there, I saw it." She starts to hyperventilate again, and the officer quickly grabs her arm, pulling her away from the alley.

"It's alright, just breathe in and out, you are going to be fine." She exchanges a look with her partner. What had just happened?

"So, how have you been?"

John sits across from his psychologist, trying (and failing) to keep his body from stiffening up in her presence.

"Alright," he replies evenly. Almost the direct opposite from the truth, hopefully she hasn't caught on. The therapist scribbles something down on her clipboard, keeping it tilted up so John can't read it. Probably, "still has trust issues" again.

"Why did you miss our last appointment?"

John has this one prepared, sort of a half truth, "My sister Harry just broke up with her girlfriend. She came to me for help that day. I'm sorry I forgot to call and let you know." The excuse sounds prepared, and John is certain the psychologist picks up on it (there's more scribbling on the clip board).

"So, Harry. You haven't brought her up in a while. How did it go?"

John lets out a laugh, which sounds a little unstable to his own ears so he stops. "She stormed out to get blasted at the nearest bar and accused me of going off to war to get away from her." He immediately regrets opening up even the slightest bit to his psychologist (he swears that she can read his mind and is determined to ask all the questions he doesn't want to answer).

"Why do _you_ think you went off to war?"

"To serve my country," John rattles off automatically, his mind being drawn back to yesterday; _don't give me that patriotic bullshit._ Harry had seen right through it, hopefully his psychiatrist wouldn't be as observant.

Of course she is, making a doubtful "hmph" at the back of her throat and writing something else down. John sighs, staring at the clock. Still 32 minutes and 14 seconds to go.

Sherlock throws a few pounds at the taxi driver and then steps out of the car with a heavy sigh. He had spent the day tracking down leads for Lestrade who had the nerve to ask him yet again to help him with a case lower than a 6. Despite his brilliant deductions, the culprit had escaped to Germany. Lestrade was contacting officials there, it wouldn't be long until they found him, but Sherlock had been hoping for a chance to take down the bastard himself. He was an arms dealer, sure to have some tricks up his sleeves and also sure to put up one hell of a fight.

Lestrade had also asked him about the Parkings' case. Sherlock is certain he had thrown of any suspicion on his part, but Lestrade is still hot on the trail. John hadn't been very careful in his murder; it is only a matter of time before even the incompetent yard finds him. Sherlock knows the court would go easy on John, being a first time offender, soldier, and killer of a pedophile (really he did a service to society), but he would still serve time. For reasons beyond Sherlock's comprehension he doesn't want John to be convicted for this.

Sherlock is so lost in his Mind Palace that he almost doesn't notice the straightened knocker on 221. He growls, swatting it angrily to make it crooked again and then storms in.

"You have a guest," Mrs. Hudson tells him cheerfully.

Sherlock ignores her and stalks up the stairs, ignoring her mutter of "rude". He throws the door open to his flat and growls out, "Hello Mycroft."

He is sitting in the chair across from Sherlock, a chair Mrs. Hudson had insisted on putting in as if Sherlock actually had guests.

"Sherlock," his brother says in that infuriating voice of his, "Do come join me, brother mine."

Sherlock sits across from him and fixes him with the most hateful glare he can manage which is reserved only for Mycroft and low life criminals (criminal master minds receive a much more appraising look).

"I see you have added a chair to your apartment. Have you met anyone new recently?"

The question is innocent enough, but Sherlock narrows his eyes anyway, "You've been following me."

Mycroft smirks at him (Sherlock knows many ways he can wipe of that smirk, preferably violent ways), "I always keep an eye on you, don't want a repeat of '09 now do we?"

"I've been clean since then," Sherlock snaps at him, his already small amount of patience deteriorating.

"I am quite certain."

"Why are you here, Mycroft?" Sherlock is about ready to kick him out of his flat (then check carefully for bugs).

"I am here to talk about your new friend, John Watson."

Mycroft notices how Sherlock stiffens slightly at that, "I don't have any friends."

"No? Then tell me, why wouldn't you hand him in to the police, that's your job, is it not?"

Sherlock just gives him a murderous glare.

"I have his file. Do with it what you wish." Mycroft places the small folder on the table and stands.

"I really must be going," he says on his way to the door, "Do be careful, remember-"

"Yes, yes sentiment is not an advantage," Sherlock mutters shutting the door on his brother.

He sits back down on his seat, his hands prayer- like against his lips, his eyes fixed on the peculiar object that is taking up so much of his thoughts. Mycroft's car pulls away from the curb and Sherlock stands, cautiously picking up the folder. He sits back down, glancing at it for a moment with hesitation, then throws it open. Time to get to know John Watson.

"Sherlock we need your help."

"I just finished helping you with the arms dealer case."

"That was yesterday."

"Was it?" Sherlock glances at the clock. Looks like he had been studying John Watson's file all night, as small as it was (the entire thing was already filed away in his mind palace, John had been given a new drawer all for himself).

"There's this mad wanker at the yard, he's insisting that he talks to you."

"I'm not mad," interjects a voice from the background of the phone call which Lestrade ignores.

"He said something about a disappearing body."

"I'll be there in ten."

"Wait Sherlock…" The line is already dead. Lestrade puts the phone down with a sigh and turns to his newest "witness".

"He'll be here in ten minutes." The witness nods, looking very nervous, his hands clenching in and out of fists.

Sherlock is halfway to the yard when he realizes he wants to make a detour. He directs the taxi driver and sends a text out to Lestrade that he'll be later than originally anticipated. Now to plan out what he is going to say to persuade Doctor John Watson to accompany to the very place Sherlock is trying to keep him out of.

Sherlock is outside apartment 36, as stated in John's file. He hesitates with his hand on the door, before taking a deep breath and knocking.

"I'll be right there," the familiar voice calls out from inside, filled with nervousness. Sherlock rolls his eyes, even _Anderson_ would have been able to recognize the guilt in his voice if it had, in fact, been the yard knocking. Maybe keeping him out of prison will be a little harder than Sherlock had thought..

The door opens revealing his old… acquaintance? There is a phony smile pasted on his face (still not Anderson proof) that turns into a gasp when he sees Sherlock. Sherlock half wants to impersonate a police officer, or do something equally as insane to make John squirm, but instead he just barges in with a nice, "Hello John," (which seems to have the same effect on the poor guilt-ridden man).

"Sherlock," he stutters, closing the door behind him, "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock takes in his apartment, deductions soaring through his mind, "I am here to ask you to accompany me to Scotland Yard."

At John's stricken gaze, he continues hastily, "To help me with a case."

"A case?" John seems very confused. Sherlock sighs, remembering that common people require extra explanation for their less-than-brilliant minds.

"You're a doctor are you not?"

"Yes- wait how do you know-?"

"I require help on my cases; an assistant is the best word for it, most preferably someone with medical experience who can tell me the medical information while I make deductions. Sadly my last assistance is… preoccupied, and you seemed the most likely candidate."

"Cases? What exactly do you do?" John's face has only grown more confused.

Sherlock sighs impatiently, "I can explain later, but will you come?" Sherlock schools his expression just in case John rejects him (which he is 99.9% sure he won't).

"What will that entail?"

Sherlock decides to put it in simple words for John, "Looking at dead bodies, chasing down some criminals, and working with the detective who is on the Parkings' case, searching for you."

John only hesitates a moment before nodding.

"A cab is waiting outside, I will wait for you."

The confused look is back, "Wait we're leaving now?"

"Yes," Sherlock replies, more than a little exasperated, and walks out. On second thought he pops his head back in, "Bring your gun."

Two minutes later John is in the taxi, sitting next to a stranger who somehow knows his entire life, with a gun used to kill a man concealed in his jeans. His mind is still trying to process it, but instead of feeling panic or more importantly regret, he feels _excitement_. He is going to help this mad man catch bad guys and solve cases in his odd way.

John had googled him and found his website the night before. The science of deduction, sounding like a bunch of garbage to him ("I can tell a person's a pilot by their sleeve cuff") but then again Sherlock had somehow known both his name and occupation in the alley a few nights before. He had also seemed to know exactly how and why John killed James Parkings, just needing John to confirm it.

Sherlock notices that John keeps glancing over at him, opening his mouth as if to say something before closing it again. Sherlock sighs, "You have questions, go ahead." He turns to look out the window, waiting for the inevitable moment when John figures out what a freak he is and leaves.

John seems to pause for a moment to decide what to ask first then starts, "That night when you confronted me- you knew things about me; my name, my occupation. How?"

"The same way I know that you have, no _had_ , a psychosomatic limp which you must have fixed that day you fought me, good job. You were a doctor in Afghanistan where you witnessed and participated in the worst of war leading your doctor to believe you have PTSD and where you were also shot in your left shoulder. You have very little friends left who aren't soldiers, and you barely even talk to them anymore. You are estranged from your sister, probably because she is an alcoholic and recently broke up with her long-term girlfriend, Clara. Your sister also gave you that phone sitting in your left pocket right now, although probably angrily after a fight because you haven't called her since even though it's clearly causing more guilt."

John looks angry and confused again, "How the hell do you know all that?" He looks about ready to jump out of the car.

Sherlock admits that his deductions of John are a little bit cheating because he had read the files on him, but none of them are ones he couldn't have made himself (except for maybe that Harry is a girl, it's a good thing he found that out previously because he hates being wrong).

Sherlock knows John will probably hate him for it, but he can't help but leaping into his explanation, "Your limp being psychosomatic is rather obvious, considering that you fought perfectly fine with me a few nights ago and have now foregone the use of your cane, also because you were shot in your shoulder, not the leg, I know this because you still favor it ever so slightly, especially when I had you pinned down."

"How'd I know you have a therapist? Any soldier suffering from PTSD would have a therapist. You have little friends because your flat is not even suited to hold guests and shows no signs of more than one person spending any significant amount of time there. I caught a look at your phone which told me the rest."

He holds out his hand and John hands him the phone; a shocked look on his face that Sherlock is sure will turn to disgust soon. "A nice phone, not something you would be able to afford on an army pension. A gift, then. On the back, "To Harry, Love Clara". Harry could be a distant relative, but you're here in London alone in a crappy apartment so it's doubtful you have an extended family. Sister then."

"Now who's Clara? Clara is clearly Harry's lover who gave her this phone as a gift. But it is not very well cared for, look at the scratches. So they were going through a rough patch, which ended in the break up where Harry gave you the phone. Alcoholic because of the scratches near the charger."

Sherlock shows them to John and continues, "This comes from trying to plug in the phone while drunk; your hand will shake. You never see an alcoholic without them or a sober person with them. You haven't called her and she hasn't called you because the power button is loose suggesting you've been turning it on and off frequently lately, maybe checking for her call or deciding whether or not to make your own to her (it's not like you have any one else to be calling). So you two had a fight the day she gave it to you, and you haven't talked since."

Sherlock finishes his explanation and fixes his gaze out the window, refusing to look at John (and the horror surely written over his face.)

"Brilliant."

Sherlock turns sharply to him, "Really?"

"Yes, absolutely brilliant." John's face is lit up in wonder which sends warmth through Sherlock, an unfamiliar feeling.

"That's not what most people say," Sherlock grumbles.

"Yeah, what do most people say?" John inquires.

"Piss off." The both burst into laughter, odd giggles of joy that makes Sherlock happier than he has been in a while. They fall into a comfortable silence on the rest of the drive to the yard.

John seems to grow stiffer the closer they get to New Scotland Yard. His face is written with apprehension and his hands are clenched into fists.

"John, relax," Sherlock says in the most soothing voice he can manage, "They don't have any evidence that it was you, and even if they did it would be blatantly obvious that you're guilty from your facial expressions. At least try to look like you want to be here."

John takes a deep breath, his expressions schooling into at least a calm expression.

"Better," Sherlock tells him which earns a glare out of his new companion. _Note to self: do not treat John like a dog._

The taxi stops and Sherlock jumps out of the cab, ignoring John's grumbling on being forced to pay the tab. He strolls into the building, passing right through the metal detectors, before remembering John and doubling back. Thankfully John is not right behind him and is instead staring up at the building with an agonized expression on his face.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and grabs John's arm pulling him down a few streets. He ignores John's question as to where they're going. Finally he finds her, Alice, sitting on the sidewalk with a guitar case beside her filled with some loose change and a stick of gum.

Sherlock pockets John's gun, satisfied that he can do it without John even noticing. He leans down pretending to be saying something to her and tucks the gun inside her discarded coat. He hands her a 20 pound note. She thanks him and he whispers to her that they'll be back to pick it up in a few minutes before straightening up.

John follows him as he starts back to NSY. "What was that all about?"

"I was just placing your gun in safe-keeping."

John pats his pockets and looks at Sherlock in amazement, "How did you do that?"

Sherlock just smirks at him, and although John tries to look angry he can tell that he is amused. He is much more relaxed when they enter through the metal detectors. Sherlock leads him to Lestrade's office.

He stalks in, John following him with much less confidence.

"Sherlock, about bloody time you showed up," Lestrade calls out to him, standing behind a stringy young man that Sherlock doesn't recognize. Lestrade turns to look at him and looks shocked to see John with him, "Who's that?" he questions in a shocked voice, his mouth hanging open like a fish out of water.

"This is my colleague, Doctor John Watson, who will be accompanying me to the crime scene," Sherlock says in a voice that cuts off any discussion from Lestrade. Lestrade gives him a pointed look, "John, this is Detective Inspector Graham Lestrade."

"Greg," he corrects and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

Lestrade clears his throat, "Okay Sherlock this is Peter Douglas…"

Sherlock cuts him of, deductions rapidly running through his mind, "21 years old, a high school dropout, now lives on the streets and makes a living selling drugs, using mostly cocaine himself, high intelligence, really a waste of space and sorry excuse for a human being. He thinks he saw a body that later disappeared, probably a hallucination, very common with cocaine. He came running into the yard asking for me because…" Sherlock hesitates in his deductions and then his eyes fix on the now slightly- horrified witness. "His father was my dealer," he finishes with false calm.

John lets out a strangled cough behind him that Sherlock does his best to ignore. The addict in front of him is giving Lestrade a panicked look now that his illegal occupation has been revealed. Lestrade gives Sherlock that amazed (and slightly doubting) look he gives him every time he makes a few deductions for him.

"The body was real! I saw it, I touched it!" the young dealer pipes up, lifting his hands to reveal dried blood.

"No, you did not," Sherlock tells him in his this-conversation-is-over-voice.

"Sherlock," Lestrade protests.

While Sherlock is doing his best to find his way out of this situation that he definitely does not want anything to do with, regardless if there had actually been a body or not, John Watson is busy filling out his duties as his new assistant.

He procures a swab out of god knows where (probably Lestrade's desk) and swipes the blood from Peter's hands. Most of it is dried and flakes off into the evidence bag. "We should take this to the lab," he tells Sherlock, who is deeply annoyed and ready to storm out of the Yard and get himself as far away as he can from the incident in '09.

"I'll take it," Sherlock snaps at him, grabbing the flakes from his outstretched hand. He storms out of the room as soon as John is finished getting a sample of the Peter's saliva for comparison, making him run to catch up to his longer strides. Lestrade throws his card at John before he leaves telling him, "Call me if you ever need anything." (John guesses this is more for Sherlock's benefit than his own.)

Thankfully John doesn't bring up the new information he's learned about Sherlock so Sherlock slows his steps to let John walk comfortably beside him (John has painfully slow strides). He leads him down to the morgue, heading straight for one of the empty rooms.

He flicks the lights on with a smile, inhaling the scent of chemicals that always make him feel so at home. The only other scent that can do that to him is the scent of 221B; it has a sort of cinnamon-y scent mixed with whatever delicious meal Mrs. Watson has just cooked, and often is just as filled with chemical smells from Sherlock's various experiments as the lab is.

John hands him the other swab and Sherlock gets to work. John sits a few feet away from him, watching him work with curiosity written over his features. Sherlock finds that his gaze doesn't distract him as much as most people's do.

A few minutes later he has the results, "The DNA doesn't match," he tells John with a sigh. He sends the unknown blood through the system hoping for a match.

Normally a case like this would excite him, a disappearing body is a new thing and Sherlock doesn't see many entirely new things in his line of work. This could very well be the works of a criminal mastermind, or just someone getting rid of evidence, but Sherlock prefers the former. However, Sherlock's blood can't help but run cold every time he is around cocaine; even the mention of cocaine makes him want to run far away. In any other circumstance Sherlock would have already been well on his way to _far away_ , but this time he has John Watson, and he very well can't give up on their first case.

Sherlock briefly looks over the small bits of evidence he has in his Mind Palace. The next logical step is to see the "crime scene" (if an actual crime had occurred and it had not all been a drug-induced hallucination.) "Come along, John," he calls out and his new assistant jumps up to follow him out.

"And here's where the body was," Peter tells the group, gesturing to a spot on the ground.

John looks at the completely blank pavement with a skeptical look on his face. There isn't the slightest evidence that a body had been there, not even the faintest trace of blood. Lestrade looks about as convinced of the body as John is, but of course Sherlock sees something that the average brain would never be able to pick up on.

He jumps around the alleyway, studying various patches of pavement with his magnifying glass. He straightens up and paces a few times muttering incoherently under his breath. His eyes suddenly widen in that I-have-just-deduced-something-spectacular way and he strides over to the brick wall siding the alley.

He rubs a gloved finger down it and then brings it to his nose, taking a big whiff. A giant smile breaks over his face, "Arturo Fuente Anejo."

"Who?" John asks him, not following.

"Not who, what. Arturo Fuente Anejo- one of the world's rarest cigars." John remembers seeing an analysis on the 253 types of cigarette ash on Sherlock's page. He decides not to question it, considering how many times Sherlock has already proved him wrong in their span of their two-day friendship.

"Okay, so someone was smoking cigars and wiped their ash on the wall," Lestrade says slowly causing Sherlock to let out another exasperated sigh. _Why must everyone be an idiot?_

"This was the killer's cigar," he answers trying to keep it as simple as he can for Lestrade's miniscule brain.

"How do you know?" Sherlock just stares at Lestrade with the most incredulous look. How can anybody possibly be this dull?

"Sherlock?" John questions.

Sherlock gives in, "It has been nearly four hours since Peter discovered the body here. It rained yesterday until precisely 4:15 this morning. It is highly unlikely that another person lingered here before the body was found except for the murderer. Therefor we can conclude that the killer smoked the cigar either before or after. My guess is before because the blood was still flowing when Peter arrived, a fresh kill then. The killer was waiting for this man in this alley; somehow he knew he was going to be here. They must have known each other, trusted each other enough to meet in an alley in the middle of the night…" Sherlock trails off, his eyes flicking over the blank alley as if they can see more than normal eyes. It seems to John that Sherlock can see the body right now; his mind is powerful enough to portray the image from a mere description of it.

Lestrade thinks for a moment, "Well then what happened to the body?"

"He moved it" Sherlock responds, a wild spark in his eye. He abruptly turns to John, lifting his collar, "Come along, John, we have some research to conduct."

Lestrade doesn't even bother to protest as John hurries after Sherlock (as if the stubborn bastard would listen to him anyway.)

Five minutes later John and Sherlock are in yet another taxi riding through the streets of London. Sherlock hasn't spoken once during the entire ride and John feels a need to break the uncomfortable silence.

"So where exactly are we going?" Sherlock had told the driver 221B Baker Street.

"Hmmm?" Sherlock looks up at John as if just remembering that he is there. "Oh to my flat, I need to look something up." That seems as much of an explanation as John is going to get; Sherlock promptly goes back to staring out the window with a deep frown. John can nearly see the wheels turning in his head, pieces chinking together as he makes his extraordinary deductions.

They pull up in front of a flat in central London that John would pay an arm and a leg for (he really needs to find a job instead of running around London with an insane detective). Sherlock hops out leaving John with the bill again. He grumbles a "thanks" at the taxi driver and follows Sherlock.

He steps in and is greeted by an older woman who is practically glowing when she looks at Sherlock like a mother would, "Sherlock you're back! And you've brought a guest!" (She sounds genuinely surprised by this).

"Yes, yes Mrs. Hudson we shall be upstairs," Sherlock dismisses her. He hangs up his coat and bounds up the stairs. John smiles at Mrs. Hudson and follows him up.

"I'll bring you boys up some tea, but just this once, I'm not your housekeeper. And I expect a proper introduction Sherlock!" she calls up to them. Sherlock ignores her and throws open the door marching into his flat.

John follows him in and has to restrain himself from making a wise comment when he sees the state of it. The apartment is in complete disarray, stacks of files and yellowing papers stacked haphazardly through the room. All available counter and table space is covered in test tubes with multi-colored liquids and other various experiment-looking things. The only pieces of furniture safe from the chaos of the room are the two chairs sitting facing each other in the center.

John's eyes wander up to the mantle, "Is that a skull?"

Sherlock looks up from his frantic typing at the computer, "Yes, an old friend of mine," he tells John, cracking a sly smile. He goes back to typing, his eyes reading things on the screen at an alarming pace. John stands in the center of the room watching him, a little unsure on what to do.

The crazed excitement on Sherlock's face only grows as he stares intensely at the screen. He leaps up exclaiming, "I've got it John! He is brilliant, extraordinarily brilliant!"

"I'm sorry, who's brilliant?" John asks, confused yet again by the puzzling man in front of him.

"The killer, of course! Come on John, we don't have much time until he strikes again." Sherlock practically runs out of the room, nearly trampling Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs with a tray of tea.

"Leaving already, Sherlock?" she asks, throwing a disappointed look at the tea. Sherlock is already pulling on his coat, with John right behind him. "Sorry Mrs. Hudson, we must go- the game is on!"

"Alright dearie. But I do expect a proper introduction," she sternly looks at Sherlock, gesturing at John who is already half way out the door.

"As soon as we find him," Sherlock promises and follows John out.

John tries to just go with the flow, but eventually curiosity gets the better of him. "Where are we going?" he asks Sherlock breaking him out of his reverie again. He doesn't seem to mind, seeming pleased to be reminded that he isn't alone.

"To the yard. We need to talk to Peter again. He's clever, he saw more that night then he thinks he did."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaims as Sherlock bursts into his office with John trailing behind him. Lestrade hastily takes his feet off his desk and brushes off some donut crumbs from his shirt.

"I need to talk to Peter," Sherlock tells him, more of a demand than a request.

"Tell me what you know about the case, then I'll let you see him," Lestrade counters.

Sherlock lets out an exasperated sigh, "Where is Peter?"

"Remember what I told you about withholding evidence, Sherlock…" Lestrade threatens (not very efficiently.)

Sherlock resists the urge to argue back, only for the sake of saving time (there is a murderer on the loose after all), "The body Peter found was not the first victim; he was in fact the 6th confirmed victim of our killer. The first body was discovered two months ago in central London. All 6 bodies disappeared when the people who discovered them went to phone the police. 3 of the people who discovered a body simply did not have a cell phone on them like Peter, and the other two claimed that the signal suddenly cut out where they found the bodies. Every time the police did not believe them because there was no evidence."

"And the officer on duty didn't notice a pattern?" Lestrade looks troubled by the news.

Sherlock is at the end of his patient. "Have I not proved the ineptness of the police force on multiple occasions, including yourself, Lestrade? Now will you promptly show me to Peter, I need to talk to him."

Lestrade grumbles something, but he leads Sherlock and John out anyway. "We're keeping him in a holding cell until the case is over."

"I don't remember anything," Peter spits back, every muscle tense as he faces off with Sherlock who is well within his personal space and doing his best to be intimidating (Sherlock Holmes is intimidating even when he's not trying to be, so when he does try it is a frightening experience to say the least.)

"Think harder, you must remember something from that night," Sherlock growls to him.

"I told you everything I know, I was high that night what more do you want from me?" Peter is practically in tears.

"Why don't you go over it again," John interjects in a kind voice, shooting Sherlock a hard look. He scowls but takes a few steps back and softens his gaze slightly.

Peter relaxes noticeably. "Okay, so I was wandering the streets, high as fuck, I had just snorted some high end stuff. I didn't see the body until I tripped over it. I was so high it took me a minute or two to realize he was dead. I got off him and backed away, getting a clear view of him. He was white, short black hair and cleanly shaven. He had sharp features and was wearing an expensive- looking black suit. There was a dagger through his chest, with a plain wooden handle. He was still warm when I landed on him," Peter inhales sharply at the memory and forces himself to continue, "He must have been just killed."

Sherlock lets out a sigh which causes Peter to stiffen up again and shoot a helpless look at John. John gives him an encouraging smile then looks at Sherlock with just as apprehensive of a gaze. "Are you sure that's all you remember?" Sherlock asks, sounding slightly disappointed.

"Yes," Peter answers, his voice trembling.

"Thank you for your time, you have been very… helpful," Sherlock drawls out and then turns to John, "We will be going now."

"We will?" John asks, giving him a confused look.

"Yes, come along now John." John follows him out.

"What was the point of that, we got absolutely nothing out of it?" John asks him once they're out of ear shot.

"Oh, I think we got plenty out of it," Sherlock says with a predatory grin that is more frightening than reassuring. "I need to talk to the officer on duty during the calls." Sherlock and John walk off in pursuit of Lestrade, John having to jog to keep up with Sherlock's longer strides.

Sherlock finds Lestrade in a meeting with a majority of the police force. They are talking about the murder of some important political figure, boring and most likely obvious. Sherlock has no problem interrupting him, "You can let Peter go; he doesn't know anything."

Lestrade trails off on his explanation of the evidence found at the scene, "I'm in the middle of a meeting Sherlock," Lestrade says, giving him a glare that would make most people cower (but of course not Sherlock).

Sherlock glances at the board, "The husband did it. She was sleeping with the butler. He poisoned her morning tea."

Lestrade's mouth is literally hanging open at that. "Alright everyone," he says gruffly, "Take five."

The officers disperse, glancing curiously at the mysterious Sherlock Holmes of whom they had all heard so much about. "I can't let him go Sherlock, he's a drug dealer."

"Do you have evidence of that?" Sherlock questions rapidly.

"No, but I'm getting a warrant…."

"Good, but while you're getting that warrant you have no right to keep him here. Let him go."

Lestrade narrows his eyes at Sherlock's persistence, "Why do you want to free him so badly?"

Sherlock seems to ignore the question, ordering Lestrade to do something else for him, "I need to talk to the person or people on duty when the phone call was made. I need to hear the recordings."

Lestrade decides not to push on Sherlock's obvious avoidance to answer his question (he'll keep an eye on him), "I'll go look that up."

A few minutes later John and Sherlock are talking with (more interrogating) the person the phone calls were made to, a young female officer who is clearly very new to the job.

"And you didn't notice the connection?" Sherlock practically yells at the poor girl.

"N-no, sir, I just thought they were prank calls," she stutters back, her eyes watering. John would have laughed at her calling Sherlock "sir" if Sherlock currently wasn't being such an insufferable bastard.

Sherlock pauses for a moment, and John thinks the worst is over, until he sees Sherlock's intense gaze flicking over the girl, deducing her. Being that Sherlock is the most insensitive human being he has ever met; John can tell that this is not going to end well. He clears his throat and Sherlock jerks his head to him. He subtly shakes his head at him hoping to portray, "not good" in his gesture.

Sherlock seems to understand because he pastes a phony half-smile on his face and says, "Thank you, we will take it from here."

The girl lets out a shuttered breath and briskly exits the room. Sherlock gives John a questioning look, "What did I do wrong?"

"What were you going to say to her?" John asks him, feeling a little bad for the genuinely confused look on Sherlock's face.

"I was going to tell her that her boyfriend of two years has been cheating on her for at least one year with a string of lovers. Also her father has turned back to alcohol, probably from the recent passing of her mother."

John just gives Sherlock a look.

"Not good?"

"A bit not good, yeah." Sherlock stores that away in his Mind Palace for future reference (he will have to ask John later if that pertains to all deductions or only certain personal ones, but for now they need to focus on the case at hand).

Sherlock pops in the first tape. The shaky voice comes on- victim one. Time to make connections.

Fifteen minutes of recording later John still has no idea on the who, why, what, or how of the crimes. The last tape cuts off and John opens his mouth to ask Sherlock if he had heard anything when he hears the detective muttering to himself.

"What was that?"

Sherlock fixes his captivating eyes on John, "Why John, why do they disappear?"

It takes John a second to realize that Sherlock wants him to answer, "To get rid of evidence?"

"No, if he wanted to do that he could just dispose of the bodies before they were found. No, this is different, this is a game to him, he's playing. But why? Who is he playing the game for?"

"The police?" John pipes in hopefully.

"Maybe," Sherlock says, giving John an unreadable look, "Regardless, we have to go to the other crime scenes."

Twenty minutes later they have found and dragged the officer on duty to the first crime scene. She keeps glancing warily at Sherlock, as if expecting him to start yelling at her again. Thankfully he is too lost in his Mind Palace to pay her any attention.

She shows them where the caller said the body was and then stands off to the side watching Sherlock work with equal parts fear and fascination (a common combination John has seen associated with Sherlock.)

John watches him work for a second and then asks him, "So what do you think?"

Sherlock picks up a cigar crushed into the sidewalk, holding it up with gloved fingers. He smiles triumphantly, "Arturo Fuente Anejo." He places the cigar inside an evidence bag and puts it in his pocket.

"That is all the help I shall be needing, thank you John, you may return home now."

John narrows his eyes, "But we didn't solve the case."

"I'm sure it won't take long to get a match off of this." Sherlock pats his pockets. "I'll hail you a cab."

Sherlock walks briskly to the road, holding his arm up and instantly getting a cab to pull over. "But-" John interjects, giving Sherlock a confused if not slightly hurt look which he ignores as he opens the door for him.

"Bye John, I will be sure to stop by to give you an update once the case is solved. You're assistant has been invaluable." Before John can argue that the case is not at all solved, Sherlock slams the door shut and the driver pulls away from the curb.

"1312 Crawford Street, Apartment 36," John mumbles to the driver, his eyes still stuck on the rapidly receding figure of the detective, standing by the curb.

Sherlock waits until John's cab recedes into the distance before hailing his own. He hops in, "172 Mallard Drive."

It's five minutes into the cab ride when John realizes that he's missing something. He pats his pockets frantically, his mind frantic at the thought he had lost it in some place. He remembers him and Sherlock retrieving the gun from Alice, so what had happened after that…Sherlock.

Even though John can't make deductions even a fraction as effortlessly as Sherlock Holmes does, it is not hard to jump to the conclusion that he is going after the killer himself. John doesn't hesitate to dial Lestrade's number, noticing a slight trembling in his trigger hand as he holds up Lestrade's card to read it.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking."

"It's Sherlock…"

Sherlock makes the cab drop him off a few apartments down from his destination. He feels the reassuring weight of gun in his pocket. It's only a matter of time before John figures out it's missing and calls in back up- Sherlock just wants to have a little chat with the murderer first.

He approaches flat 172- cracked bricks and dirty windows concealed with heavy shades. Quite obviously an addict's house- the signs are everywhere as they are on many of the ramshackle buildings around him. Sherlock is very familiar with the signs of an addict.

Sherlock rings the doorbell and hears no sound on the inside- broken. He knocks firmly on the door, he is definitely inside. Sherlock waits a minute or two until he is just about ready to burst down the door when it suddenly swings open.

A familiar, dirt-stained, wiry face meets him. His pupils are so dilated that there is only a small rim of pale blue surrounding them. "Hello Peter, may I come in?"

"Where is he?" John shouts into the phone, fear rapidly growing inside of him.

"I'm making the search now!" Lestrade growls back into the phone, shouting filling the background of his phone call.

The cab driver is currently pulled off to the side of the road, watching John with barely concealed amusement. "You do realize I charge by the minute when parked," the driver starts.

John just waves his hand at him and continues throwing orders at Lestrade through the phone (the soldier in him is making this a frankly terrifying experience for Lestrade).

"I've got it! His cell phone says he's at…"

John shouts the address at the driver who immediately pulls of the curb, taking John's orders to drive fast to heart. This is the most excitement he's ever had in his lousy job.

"I'm five minutes out," John tells Lestrade.

"We'll have a squad car there in ten, but do not enter under any circumstance until back up arrives. John, do you hear me?"

John hangs up, a grim look of determination settling on his features.

Back at the Yard, Lestrade swears at the dead line. A few of his officers stop in their tracks to stare at him. "Go, what are you waiting for, move!" he shouts at them, and then hurries behind them. He does not need a dead Sherlock and a dead civilian on his watch tonight.

Out of all the things Sherlock expected Peter to do, punching him was not one of those things. He stumbles back, pressing a hand in surprise to his nose where a small stream of blood is already dribbling out.

Sherlock recovers quickly, nimbly dodging out of the way of his next punch as he regains his bearings. Peter is high, he should be easy to incapacitate. But before Sherlock knocks Peter out he wants to have answers. Most importantly- why? What is his game?

Sherlock speaks rapidly, dodging kicks and punches from the greatly disorientated Peter easily as he goes, "So you find random strangers on the street, just anyone who happens to be walking alone. You stab them, and let them bleed out on the pavement. You wait until someone comes and sees the body, steering away groups of people by standing in the alley and smoking, not the most comforting site at night. Then when someone approaches solitary, you hide nearby and watch them find the body. You turn on your cell phone scrambler, in case they have a cell phone on them, and then when they run off to the nearest phone booth you remove the evidence. You do this on rainy nights, so you can avoid suspicion when you wash the blood away. You hide the body nearby and then you return. You watch the police, you like to see them work, see you outsmart them. But the game was getting boring, wasn't it? You overestimated the police, they were even duller then you anticipated. But your father, he told you about me, you looked for the challenge. You were going to turn yourself in, lay out the details right in front of me, and wait for me to bite."

Peter has ceased his attack on Sherlock and is standing a few feet away from him listening with a manic glint in his eye. "Took you longer than I thought," he mocks, "I was right in front of you, this whole time, while you were running around crying about cigar smoke."

"I was right," Sherlock says coldly, admittedly a little disappointed that the violence is over.

Peter laughs, sending chills through Sherlock- it's not possible that he made a mistake, is it? Everything fit. "I've never smoked a cigar in my life. Maybe you are more dull then he thought."

Peter suddenly lunges at Sherlock, pulling a knife out of his pocket, catching him off guard once again (this time he is mostly preoccupied with trying to reevaluate his mistake). Sherlock pulls John's gun out but before he can aim it at Peter he strikes a blow to his hand knocking the gun away. It clatters on the pavement and slides a few feet away, out of Sherlock's reach.

Sherlock doesn't watch the gun's path; instead his mind is busy planning ahead the attacks to disarm Peter (who is still very high- easy, really). He punches him hard in the jaw, and then kicks the hand with the knife. Peter's wimpy form is stronger than it looks because even though he stumbles back a few feet the knife stays in his grasp.

Sherlock's adrenaline filled mind finally catches up to what Peter's had just said. "Who's he?"

Peter launches himself at Sherlock again and he leaps out of the way, kicking him hard in the back and sending him flying.

Peter is sprawled on the pavement, his back trembling. It takes Sherlock a second to realize he is laughing, his small frame shaking from the effort of it. "Looks like you missed something Sherlock."

Sherlock approaches Peter, pressing the heel is his foot into the hand holding the knife. Peter doesn't even flinch. "Who is he?" Sherlock forces out through gritted teeth.

It all happens in a flash. All of a sudden Peter brings his legs up to hit Sherlock's knees. They buckle and before Sherlock even hits the pavement Peter is up. He pins Sherlock down, pressing the knife to his neck. Sherlock has a flash of déjà vu to his meeting with John.

Sherlock scarcely dares to breathe as Peter holds the knife against his throat hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. His empty black pupils bear into Sherlock, a twisted smile contorting his features.

"He always raves about you, the great Sherlock Holmes, cleverer than the whole bunch. He said you weren't boring." Peter laughs dryly, "But you are, Sherlock. You're ordinary, perfectly ordinary." He spits the word out in disgust. "Isn't it awful to be so ordinary?"

Peter is staring so intently at Sherlock that he doesn't notice the shadow growing behind him. His voice muffles the sound of a gun being picked up from the pavement, then being cocked.

"He will be terribly disappointed when I tell him how ordinary you _were._ "

Sherlock eyes widen and he prepares himself for the cut, prepares himself for death. Instead a bang resonates through the air and Peter pauses, his mouth hanging open in shock. His eyes glaze over and he stares down at the rapidly growing patch of red staining through his shirt.

Sherlock shoves him off, groping at his own neck only to feel blood coating it. His breathing accelerates before he realizes how small the cut is and he drops his hand. He leans down next to Peter, "Who is he?" he hisses at the man.

Peter doesn't look at him, his eyes clouded from pain as he drifts into unconsciousness. "Focus!" Sherlock shouts at him, wrenching his head to face him, "Who is he?"

A smile breaks over Peter's face that sends chills down Sherlock's back. "Master," he whispers. The life fades from his eyes.

"Who!? Who is he?" Sherlock shouts at him, shaking him violently.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, "He's gone," John says quietly.

Sherlock looks up at him and it hits him- John had just shot someone for him. For Sherlock, who he had only known for a day after Sherlock had held a knife to his throat.

Sherlock clears his throat, the word "thanks" forming in his mind but instead he says, "Nice shot."

John grunts noncommitidely and then notices Sherlock's neck (and bloodied nose). "Sherlock you're bleeding!" He looks alarmed by the news.

"It's just a scratch," Sherlock replies, a little confused by the sound of concern in John's voice (why would he care?)

"That is not a little cut," John tells him sternly, his doctor skills kicking in. He prods Sherlock's nose and he flinches away. "Not broken," John mumbles out loud. He takes of his jacket, "Here hold this to your nose, this should suffice until Lestrade gets here."

Sherlock growls at that news, "Why did you call Lestrade? I was fine."

John lets out a sharp laugh, "Fine? You didn't look fine when I got here. And I called Lestrade because you were stupid enough to go gallivanting off after a psychopath by yourself."

"I had it all under control," Sherlock mumbles, a scowl darkening his features. John just rolls his eyes at this. Sherlock remembers the Parkings' case, "John give me the gun," he orders.

John rests his hand on his pocket, giving Sherlock a skeptical look, "Why?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "So I can shoot you with it, what do you think John? I think Lestrade finding you with a gun would be a very bad way to kick of your relationship with him."

Sherlock takes the gun just as 5 police cars with blaring sirens come flying into the street followed closely by 3 ambulances.

"Then he ran at me with a knife, so I shot him. How many times do I have to tell you this Lestrade?"

Lestrade scribbles some things down on his report. "Well then how did you-"

"I don't have time for this," Sherlock snaps, cutting him off and gesturing wildly to his neck, "I'm bleeding out George, I really must be getting medical attention."

Sherlock walks away, a small smile playing on his lips when he hears Lestrade mumble under his breath, "It's Greg, it has always been Greg Lestrade."

John is leaning against a police car giving his account to an over-eager police officer (gay, just got over a recent break up, clearly more than interested in John). When his eye's catch Sherlock he pulls off from the car and strolls toward him.

"You okay?" Sherlock asks quietly, watching John carefully.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"You just killed a man."

"Well he wasn't a particularly nice man." They share a smile at that and John remembers Sherlock's injuries. "Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?"

Sherlock follows him to the ambulance, deciding not to argue. Doctor's orders, after all.

After a few bandages and Sherlock's multiple protests that he is not in shock, they are released. They walk to the edge of the street in silence. Sherlock hands John back his gun and they pause for a moment, an awkward silence stretching out.

"I should be getting home," John says just as Sherlock says, "I know a diner a few blocks away…"

They both pause and John laughs, "I'm up for dinner, I haven't eaten all day." He looks at Sherlock's bandaged neck, "But you look like you've just escaped from the local hospital."

Sherlock considers that for a moment, "I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will have made something."

"Maybe you should wear a scarf next time you go gallivanting after knife- wielding psychopaths," John suggests as they step into a cab. Sherlock makes a mental note of that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** See previous chapters.

 **Warning:** This chapter is a little bloody at the end.

 **The Case of the London Vampire**

It is 4 o'clock on a Monday morning in the middle of London. Most ordinary people are not at work; in fact most ordinary people are still sleeping. But anyone who knows Molly Hooper would testify to the fact that she is not an ordinary person in a very unordinary job.

Molly steps into the lab, inhaling the scent of chemicals and disinfectant. Secretly she has grown to love this scent, although this is not something she would ever share with anyone else. She pulls on some scrubs and walks over to the table where her newest project is waiting for her.

The body was found last night, alone in an empty flat in London. Apparently the man had been dead for at least three days but as Molly unzips the bag she finds something curious- there is no smell. Any corpse left out for three days, even in the most ideal environment, would at least have some scent of death clinging to it.

She unzips it all the way, throwing open the bag to reveal the corpse. He is stiff, rigor mortis had set in. His skin is so pale it is almost translucent. She does a quick scan of the body and sees instantly that the victim's fingertips have been dismembered, but it must have occurred post- mortem due to the lack of blood stains. She finds no obvious causes of death until her eyes catch onto a slight discoloration on his neck.

She leans closer, studying the spot. There are two small pricks, side by side, right over the jugular. Molly is no stranger to horror films and she immediately recognizes the parallels between this and a "vampire bite". A few tests confirm it- the body is blood free, seemingly sucked out from the neck.

Molly dials Lestrade; it looks like this day is turning out to be quite an interesting one.

John wakes up in a strange bed, in a strange room, in just his boxers. He is instantly on guard, jumping out of bed and grabbing his gun stashed underneath his pillow. He aims it wildly around the room and then relaxes when he remembers where he is.

Sherlock and him had returned to 221B late last night and he had finally had his meeting with Mrs. Hudson. She was a very sweet lady, despite the fact she seemed to have it fixed in her mind that him and Sherlock were a couple even though John had repeatedly informed her that he was not gay.

It had been almost one in the morning by the time they finished Mrs. Hudson's lovely home-made Sheppard's pie and Sherlock had offered to let him stay in the spare room. He had slept better than he had in months.

John hears soft notes floating up the stairs, breaking him from his reverie. Who knows what could be going on in the flat of the insane detective- but whatever it is John wants to be a part of it. He throws back on his clothes from yesterday and slips his gun into his belt. From instinct he makes the bed, tucking in the soft sheets and gazing at the bed with one last longing look before starting down the stairs.

The door is open so he tentatively walks in. Whatever he was expecting when he heard music coming from 221B, it certainly wasn't Sherlock's form framed by the window as he gazes out it; his hands moving over the violin in a mesmerizing motion. The melody Sherlock is expertly weaving is beautiful, but to John it sounds a little lonely.

Sherlock hears John come down the stairs, but he keeps his back turned until John speaks, "You can play?" He sounds so disbelieving. Sherlock doesn't grace him with an answer (he had decided to lessen his sarcastic remarks around John; apparently they're "a bit not good.")

"Good morning John." Sherlock pulls out the last note of the melody, letting it waiver through the air for a moment before pulling the bow away. He gently places the violin in its case and turns to face John.

"Being that you are unemployed, how would you like to come on another case with me today?"

John decides to not question how he knows that he's unemployed (it's because he's bloody Sherlock Holmes, that's why). "I'd love to, what case?"

"I don't know yet. I'm sure Lestrade will turn up with at least a five."

"A five?"

"Out of 10. I usually only leave the house if it's above a seven."

Before John can question more about this whole rating system (what is he rating them on- the level of insanity of the murderers?) there is a small knock on the door.

"Hello boys, I hope I'm not interrupting anything. I brought you up some tea." She pokes her head in as if she expects to find them naked in compromising positions.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson," John says with a smile, settling into the arm chair across from Sherlock which has already become his designated seat.

Sherlock settles down in the chair across from John (Sherlock's chair). "So I was just talking with Mrs. Turner…"

Sherlock cuts her off, "Thank you for the tea, you can be going now."

"Sherlock," she chides but let's herself be herded out. She calls out to John, "Don't be a stranger now dear; you are always welcome here at 221B."

John smiles at the two of them; clearly it is a normal occurrence for Sherlock to herd her out like this. John sips his tea as Sherlock goes into the kitchen. He starts to feel concerned when he hears a large bang and an "uh oh" coming from the direction Sherlock went in.

He puts his tea down and walks into the kitchen. There is a flask filled with a mysterious yellow liquid on the table that is smoking violently. Sherlock hastily pours an amber liquid into it causing it to immediately start bubbling. More smoke comes off the top.

"What are you doing there?" John asks, staying a safe distance away.

Sherlock pours another liquid into the beaker, muttering something under his breath. This time it lets out a little puff of smoke and then the reaction stops.

"Let's go to the morgue," Sherlock says suddenly, walking past John and throwing open the door.

"The morgue?"

"Yes, I'm sure Molly will have a few bodies that were murdered in interesting ways."

"Who's Molly?"

Sherlock ignores him yet again and walks out the door. John sighs and follows him out, throwing on his coat when they reach the bottom of the stairs. Sherlock turns up his collar and steps out into the early morning light.

He hails a cab and soon they are heading to St. Barts.

Two hours after discovering the puncture wounds Molly is no closer to discovering the cause of them. Her best guess is that they were caused by a needle that was used to drain the John Doe of blood, but why had they used just his neck, it would have been more effective to use multiple veins. And why were there two punctures? It seems like someone had gone through a lot of trouble to make this look like a supernatural occurrence.

Molly is so involved in her work that she doesn't hear the door to the lab open. His voice startles her causing her to drop the scalpel. It clatters on the floor and she wheels around to face him, feeling her face flush.

"Anything interesting?" His baritone voice sends shivers down her spine. Why must he have such a voice? And such beautiful cheek bones, and…

He is staring at her with her penetrating gaze and Molly realizes he had just asked her a question. "Sh-Sherlock you scared me," she stutters, bending to pick up the scalpel to hide the flush running up her face. Why can't she think properly around him?

Sherlock invites himself to go look at the body and that's when Molly notices the stranger following him. He is short but strongly built and Molly can't help but admitting- handsome. She knew it- she had been barking up the very wrong tree this whole time! At least it makes Sherlock's blatant rejection a little bit easier.

Molly holds on to a little bit of hope- maybe this man is just a (coincidentally good-looking) colleague?

"Drained of blood?" Sherlock questions, knocking Molly from her thoughts and once again spurring chills up her back (that goddamn voice).

"Yes, and that was the cause of death…" Molly answers, quite proud of the fact that she manages to not stutter. "And who is this?" The words are out of her mouth before she can really process them and she curses herself for being so utterly stupid.

Sherlock looks up at the man, holding his gaze for longer than he has ever held Molly's, "This is my colleague Dr. John Watson. John this is Molly Hooper, one of the best mortuaries Bart's has to offer." He smiles one of his fake smiles and then goes back to studying the body. John smiles awkwardly at Molly, both of them standing back and watching the brilliant detective do his work.

"What do you think John?" Sherlock finally asks, pocketing his magnifying glass.

John scoffs, "As if I could have anything to add."

"A second opinion is very important to me." John looks up to see the sincerity in Sherlock's eyes. He stifles a sigh and approaches the body, he had been an army doctor and a damn good one; he could do this.

"Age mid-twenties, very healthy, probably an athlete. Died from a loss of blood, drained out of the two punctures up here ," John pauses at the wounds, horror stories immediately coming to mind. "Dead maybe 4, 5 days hard to tell from the blood loss. His fingertips were cut off to remove the fingerprints. Anesthesia used to knock him out before the blood was drained. "

"Is that it?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes," John replies, looking up at him.

"Good," Sherlock says unexpectedly.

"Really?" John asks disbelievingly.

"Yes, but you missed almost everything important." Sherlock cracks a mischievous grin and John can't help but return, even though he has come to the conclusion (once again) that Sherlock is a complete git.

Sherlock launches into his deductions and John (and Molly) can't help but being amazed yet again, "The victim is a male in his id twenties, clearly single noting by the fact one arm is much stronger than the other yet his fingers are perfectly manicured, so he works an office job." (Molly blushes at this.) "He is clean shaven so nothing in his life foreshadowed his untimely death, which rules out stalker. The murderer made a clean kill, removing all evidence after it. He is methodical and has most likely done this before. I doubt you will even find the trace of the metal of the needle in the puncture wounds. Now for the double puncture wound… this is a trademark of his, he wants to get our attention. Clearly something to do with vampires, but he's too intelligent to be delusional, no this is deliberate."

"Brilliant," John exclaims and Sherlock's lips turn up in a small smile.

"Was an ID found on the body?" Sherlock asks, focusing his full attention on Molly and taking her breath away (those goddamn eyes, why are they so gorgeous?)

"N-no, but I told Lestrade that it was a murder case… He said that there was a body found matching this description a few blocks away from where this was found."

"Excellent, thank you Molly." With a dramatic swish of his coat, Sherlock is gone with John following briskly behind him. Molly lets out a deep breath and slumps against the examination table.

She eyes the body, "I know; I made a complete fool of myself. Now let's get you patched back up." Molly picks up the scalpel.

Lestrade is busy with his crime scene but he instantly knows when Sherlock has arrived. It could be a sixth sense, or it could be Donovan's kind greeting of "Freak," that tips him off. He sighs and turns to see the tall detective duck under the crime scene tape and snap back a retort to Sally. He is surprised to see Sherlock hold up the tape and John to duck under behind him. He still isn't sure what their relationship is, but of all of the few acquaintances Sherlock has had, John seems the most normal.

Sherlock strolls right up to the body but Donovan steps in front of John halting his path. Lestrade can't hear everything she says, but he notices how John stiffens up at the words and casts a furtive glance at the detective busy at work. John shakes his head and starts to walk away from Donovan.

She calls out to him, "Mark my words, one day we'll be standing over a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there." John ignores it and keeps walking, but Lestrade notices a nearly imperceptible tremor in his left hand at the words as he joins Sherlock.

Sherlock studies the body for a moment, lingering on the neck where Lestrade had already discovered the two needle marks. He stands up and gestures to John who squats beside him and examines the body. "Notice anything?" Sherlock asks John.

"The needle marks, they look like they are the same distance apart."

"They don't just look like; they are exactly the same length apart."

"So what does that mean?" Lestrade cuts in.

Sherlock has the thrill of the chase in his eyes, "Medical precision, we're looking for a doctor or nurse." He turns to John, "How long would it take to drain someone completely of their blood through two needles in the neck?"

"A few hours, maybe a little longer," John replies.

Sherlock continues to study the body and then stands up, taking a deep breath to begin his rapid deductions (which are mostly for John's sake considering Lestrade would never beat him to the killer), "The killer is left handed, early 20's, male, tall for his age and considerably athletic, has a medical profession and most likely some experience with forensics, this is not his first killing nor will it be his last, I estimate we have," Sherlock grabs John's arm to look at his watch, "At the most five hours before the next body shows up, although the next victim is long dead by now and well on the way to being drained of his blood."

"So what's that about, the draining of the blood?" Lestrade asks him.

Sherlock looks at him with his normal condescending look that makes Lestrade want to strangle the younger man, "Isn't it obvious?"

Before Lestrade can answer that John cuts in, "Why don't you go over it for us, Sherlock?" Sherlock gives John a look but to Lestrade's surprise he starts to explain. Maybe this John is a good influence on him.

"There are a number of reasons why someone may choose to drain a body of blood, the most obvious being that it makes them 10 times more difficult to identify. Considering that the culprit removed all forms of identification from the body along with removing the fingertips, I think it's safe to conclude that that was his purpose." Sherlock peers at the body again, "We should start with identifying the bodies, Lestrade search for a person missing for 2 to 3 days, left handed, a manual laborer in some way, most likely working in construction, single, his disappearance most likely called in by his mother for this body and for the body in autopsy look for a person missing for 4 to 5 days, who tore his left ACL twice as a teenager, and who works in an office, I would say as a secretary based on the ink stains and paper cuts, and who is also single."

Anderson furiously scribbles down Sherlock's words, saving Lestrade the embarrassment of doing it himself. "So what are you going to be doing while we track down the bodies?" he asks Sherlock, not really wanting to know the answer.

"Mrs. Hudson promised tea," Sherlock says in all- seriousness. Lestrade barely stifles a shocked laugh. If Sherlock notices it (which he most definitely does) he doesn't comment, turning on his heel and flipping up his collar dramatically as he strides away from the crime scene.

John follows behind, a little unsure of whether or not Sherlock wants him along for the ride. Sherlock turns to John lagging behind when he reaches the street. "Are you coming?"

"Um- yeah, sure, tea would be great thanks," John stutters back awkwardly.

Sherlock gets into the taxi without another word and John hops in behind him (slightly less gracefully). "I did get it right, did I not?"

"Get what right?" John asks.

Sherlock glances at John's watch, "It is your preferred time for tea. It occurred to me that I interrupted your tea this morning."

"How did you-?" John doesn't know why he's still surprised, but his stomach rumbles right on cue.

Sherlock just gives him a smug smile for an answer, the insufferable little git.

Mrs. Hudson is up with tea within five minutes of them returning to the flat. For someone who "isn't Sherlock's house keeper", she insists on caring for him an awful lot. John smiles at her and thanks her, trying to make up for Sherlock's stony silence as he sits in his chair with an absent look in his face. John doesn't even think Sherlock notices when he sits down in his chair across from him. He places Sherlock's tea on the side table along with the tray of biscuits and sits there quietly sipping his tea, trying not to stare at his new companion's absurd behavior.

"Mrs. Hudson brought up tea," John says after a minute, trying to break the silence that is beginning to gnaw on him.

Sherlock's head shoots up, looking at John as if he has just noticed he is there. "John! You live in abysmal conditions, that flat of yours is falling apart, not to mention that it is infested with rats and in a rather bad part of London. I find myself requiring a flat mate, being that my last one had to be institutionalized…" he clears his throat, "completely unrelated by the way. Anyway, how would you like to be my flat mate?"

John nearly spits out his tea at the turn of the conversation (Sherlock going from being insulting as normal to offering to share a flat with him). He chokes the tea down, burning his throat in the process. "I couldn't possibly afford a place like this…"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "That's the point of flat mates, John. The room you slept in yesterday is a spare, you can move in there today."

It seems that Sherlock has already made the decision for him. John looks around the cluttered apartment that already feels more like home after two days than his flat does after 2 months. "Okay, I'll take it." It's not a very hard choice.

Sherlock keeps his look of indifference on, but feels an odd feeling that must be relief in his stomach. He quickly pushes it away, "There are probably a few things you should know about me, considering I know the worst of you." John stiffens at this, and Sherlock quickly plows on, not wanting to lose his flat mate before they deal is officially sealed, "Sometimes I play the violin for days on end without talking. Would that kind of thing bother you?"

John laughs (more in relief, being that he was half expecting Sherlock to say he kept dead bodies in the fridge). "It depends. Are you any good?"

Sherlock's expression turns smug again, "You heard me play this morning, didn't you?"

"Alright then, I think this could work very nicely."

Right on time, almost exactly 5 hours later the next body is discovered a few blocks from the first victim. John finishes moving the last of his meager belongings into his room and goes to find his flat mate. He finds Sherlock in the kitchen, heating something up in the microwave to John's surprise. He doesn't think he's seen the man have even a bite to eat since he's met him.

"What are you heating up?"

Sherlock looks up from a microscope placed precariously on the overflowing table, "Human toes, just an experiment to pass the time."

John laughs and goes to open the microwave. He looks inside and then closes it again. The whole time Sherlock watches him with a cautious look on his face. John turns to him, "Human toes?" His voice is full of disbelief.

"For an experiment," Sherlock mutters, quickly reverting his gaze back to the microscope. It isn't even on anymore but he studies it never the less, his whole body stiffened as he waits for John to respond.

John leans against the counter, "Where did you get human toes?" His voice is neutral.

"I get them from my victims." To Sherlock's relief John lets out a short laugh at that, but he continues just in case John is starting to doubt him, "Molly gives them to me from the lab."

"So what experiment is it for?"

Sherlock launches himself into an excited explanation which John just barely understands with his medical training. Something about the decomposition rate based on heat and the electromagnetic radiation from the microwave interfering with the cells. Sherlock finishes his explanation with an unexpected, "Looks like the next body has been found."

"What?" John asks, not following the sudden turn in conversation.

Sherlock walks over to the window where John can see Lestrade exiting a squad car pulled to the side of the street.

"The game is on John!" Sherlock exclaims then goes pounding down the stairs. John follows him, not even the least bit concerned by Sherlock's excitement because he feels it too. He has missed this.

This time is the body is a female in her forties. Sherlock gets all he needs to know from one glance, but he lets John take a look anyway. John kneels besides him, "Lower forties, slightly underweight, died from draining of the blood through two needles in the neck again, fingertips removed," John hesitates then quickly sniffs near the woman's mouth. Sherlock stifles a laugh. "Anesthesia used to knock her out."

Sherlock doesn't wait to see if John is done with his deductions before he starts showing off his own, "Going through a tough divorce judging by the early graying off her hair also aided by her stressful office job- probably the CEO of her company judging by the clothes, no kids-her job would never allow for that, the job being the cause for the divorce."

"Fantastic," John comments, filling Sherlock with pride. John's admiration for Sherlock's deductions is something he doesn't think he'll ever get used to, though he hopes he will have plenty of time with John to do so.

Sherlock then turns to Lestrade, fixing him with his penetrating gaze, "Have you identified the victims yet?"

"We have a couple of people who fit the description, Anderson is checking up on them," Lestrade answers hesitantly.

"Well when you put Anderson on the job what did you expect?" Sherlock demands angrily. "We'll meet you at the Yard." Sherlock stomps off to get a taxi while John smiles apologetically at Lestrade; it's as if he's babysitting the overgrown child detective.

It takes Sherlock all of ten minutes to identify all three victims, which makes John wonder why he hadn't insisted on doing it in the first place given he has no problem with showing off. If John had never spoken to the man he would have assumed that it was to give him time to move in, but the odds of that are about as likely as Sherlock not insulting Anderson at every chance he can get.

Sherlock makes up a lead for Lestrade which sounds unbelievably farfetched to John, but somehow Lestrade believes it and lets them go. Once they are out of ear shot John asks, "Where are we really going?"

Sherlock smirks at him, "What makes you think we're not actually going to track down their murderous barber that faked his heart attack seven years ago?"

John laughs, "I can't believe he actually fell for that."

Sherlock joins in with John's laughter, then answers his question, "All three of them wrote multiple checks to an organization called "Church of our Fathers." I looked it up, it's a cult, founded right here in London. We're going to the main Church right now, there's a few of them dotted all around England."

John had expected to do many things as Sherlock' partner, but joining a cult had not been one of them. Sherlock smiles convincingly at the cult member sitting across from them and signing them up for who knows what. "I'm Jack Peters and this is my flat mate Nick Rivers. We've just…, Been looking for a change, something hasn't been right with the world, you know?" Sherlock continues to blabber on about not fitting in in society and constraints the world has put on them that they need to overcome. The man nods sympathetically as he collects information on them, Sherlock making their identities up out of thin air. John just smiles awkwardly in his chair and desperately tries to memorize his complicated cover.

"Can I see some ID please, then you can go see Him and we'll get you started." John fingers his concealed gun, he hasn't seen any weapons on this guy but if things go south he wants to be prepared.

"Of course," Sherlock says with a huge smile. John desperately tries to make eye contact with him as he rummages through his pockets and pulls out his wallet. Or rather, now that John takes a closer look, John's wallet.

Sherlock pulls out a 50 pound note and places it in front of the man. He glances at it and gives Sherlock an unimpressed look. Sherlock pulls out a few ten pound notes, effectively draining John's wallet. The man picks the money up and pockets it, "Welcome to the Church of our Fathers, my brothers. He will be with you soon. The man moves to the door of the cramped office.

Before he can exit John calls out, "Excuse me, but who exactly are we meeting with?"

The man turns in the door and gives them a distant smile that sends chills down John's back, "You'll see." With that he walks out and closes the door behind him, leaving John and Sherlock in silence.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps fade John hisses to Sherlock, "What the hell was that?"

Sherlock whispers back, "I deduced from his coat and the tremor in his hands that he was new to the cult and owed his drug dealer quite a deal of money, he joined the cult to escape them, and he hasn't been brainwashed yet, and of course…"

"No," John cuts him off in an angry and hushed voice, "I meant why did you just give him all of my money!? That's my spendings for the month!"

"Oh," Sherlock replies awkwardly, "I'll be happy to reimburse you if…"

Before he can finish his statement the door opens and they meet Him. John now understands the cult member's smile.

He looks more like something you'd find in a nightmare or a dark fairytale then in real life. His body is almost completely covered in black and red tattoos, words in foreign languages stretching down his arms with twisted images spaced between them. Crosses and fire, and John is pretty sure he can see the tail of a devil peeking out behind his black robes. His ears, nose, and lip are pierced in multiple places with barbed metal piercings. But the thing that strikes John the most is his face, more specifically his mouth. Because as he smiles at them, he reveals a row of crystal white teeth filed to sharp points. Fangs.

"Greetings Jack and Nick, we welcome you here at the Church of our Father's. I am your leader here, we prefer not to use names as they take away from the authenticity of our relationships, but most people just refer to me as Leader. Now brothers, today marks the day of your enlightenment, the day you are reborn! Come now."

Ten minutes later John and Sherlock are dressed in black robes and sitting cross legged in another small room lit up by dark red candles. "What the hell are we doing?" John hisses at Sherlock.

Sherlock smirks back at him, "I believe we are supposed to be breathing in the essence of God at the moment." Sherlock looks over at John, "Where did you put your gun?"

John pales, "I left it with our clothes, why do you think-"

The door opens and the Leader enters. He sits in between John and Sherlock. "Take in deep breathes with me in and out. In, out, in…"

Sherlock and John exchange looks as he continues to attempt to regulate their breathing. His eyes are closed and his whole body is trembling slightly.

"Now to begin, we must start with the cleanse. There is absolute trust among brothers, what you say here is between you and God."

He turns to John, "Now we will start with you, tell us your biggest regret."

John is definitely not prepared to answer questions. "Regret?" he echoes even though he heard the question. The leader nods solemnly, a serious expression on his face.

John decides to go with a half-truth, those sometimes worked on his psychiatrist, "My sister- I failed her. When our parents died she needed my support, she needed her big brother and I failed her." John swallows, finds his confession suddenly too real, "I left her, and she became an alcoholic because of me."

The leader nods at John, "Thank you for sharing. Now it's time for you to offer up your biggest regret to God so that we may heal, together." He turns to Sherlock who has a sincere expression pasted on his face.

"My girlfriend, Sarah, I loved her but I ruined it. I was drunk, and I cheated on her. She was nothing but faithful to me, yet I destroyed her." Sherlock even manages to procure a few tears; sniffling loudly.

The Leader narrows his eyes at him, "That is not your biggest regret."

Sherlock forces a few more tears, "I cheated on her, I can never forgive myself for that…"

"Yes but that is not your biggest regret," the Leader cuts him off in a hard voice, "if you cannot be honest in front of God, you cannot begin to heal."

Sherlock stops crying and straightens, his face going dark. "Victor Trevor." His tone remains neutral, but John sees his eye twitch, more emotion than he has ever seen him express.

"What about him?" the Leader presses.

"I killed him," Sherlock's voice is quiet. "He was my best friend- and I killed him."

The Leader seems satisfied with that answer, "Thank you. Now I will leave you two to reflect." He gets up and exits the room, sealing John and Sherlock back into the dark.

They sit in silence for a moment, each stuck in the overwhelming guilt, each hurting in their own way. John tries to breach the gap, "Sherlock, about that…"

Before he can continue Sherlock cuts him off, "It was nothing, just keeping our cover." Sherlock is a good actor but John can hear the slight hardness in his voice, so he drops the topic.

"When are we getting out of here?" John asks Sherlock.

Sherlock is back to his usual immature, smug self in a flash making John question if he had actually detected any pain in the man. He answers, "We need evidence, John, we have no proof that he is the killer yet." As if that should be obvious to John, who catches only a fraction of the evidence Sherlock finds in cases.

They fall back into silence which is noticeably less tense. "What do you think happens now?" John asks Sherlock after a bit.

"I am not experienced with cults… but I think it is time for us to meet our brothers," Sherlock replies.

John snorts, "I wonder if anyone else has fangs."

"Undoubtedly, I believe our vampire is supposed to be a role model to them all."

"Well maybe we should get fangs so we can fit in," John teases, not expecting Sherlock to take him seriously.

He looks thoughtful, "It would help us keep our cover."

John gives him a horrified look, "Sherlock we cannot get fangs!"

Sherlock looks at him with dead seriousness for a moment then bursts out laughing. "I can't believe you actually fell for that!" He is doubled over in laughter and John can't help but join in.

"It's something you would do in 'the name of science' or something insane like that." Sherlock just keeps laughing at John.

They are just about calmed down by the time the door opens. The quickly stop their laughter and straighten up, putting on their best thoughtful faces. Leader walks in, his eyes gazing over them as he runs a tongue over his teeth in an almost hungry manner.

"It is time for your Baptism, brothers," he says in a quiet, deep voice.

He gestures for them to follow him. John and Sherlock stand and follow his swishing robe out the door. They are led through multiple dim hallways. John hears muffled chanting behind one door. He can't decipher what they are saying. He hears a light dripping noise behind another door. They stop before this one.

Sherlock eyes flicker over the door, his gaze sharp like when he is calculating something, usually right before something big happens. John tenses, preparing for anything that could be behind that door. The leader mutters something under his breath.

"What?" John asks him. He looks up at John with a piercing gaze and just shakes his head. Whatever he had said it couldn't have been good because John feels Sherlock stiffen beside him.

The leader slowly opens the door. Inside it is too dark to make anything out, but the dripping sound intensifies, a slow _drip drip_ of liquid into liquid.

"Enter," he orders John and Sherlock gesturing ahead. John watches Sherlock and once he steps forward he follows. The Leader closes the door behind them, sealing them in pitch black. John is instantly on guard, wheeling around to squint into the darkness to where the Leader had just been.

Sherlock stands there calmly, his eyes closed, his ears listening intently. Behind John's escalated breathing he can hear the slight rasp of The Leader. He hears his heavy footsteps start to move across the room, his robe sliding against the floor behind him.

Sherlock turns to keep himself faced towards the leader. He feels John reach out near him and he grabs the poor flailing man and squeezes his arm reassuringly. John goes still and stands next to Sherlock letting out deep breaths as he struggles to control the tide of adrenaline. A soldier needs to be able to see his enemy.

Soon John knows where the Leader is just like Sherlock because he starts to chant. The words are foreign, Sherlock can't even decipher the words, but he hears enough to recognize the complex language structures and varied words he chants. The language is well developed, and whatever it is the leader knows it well.

The chanting gets louder and more rapid and Sherlock can hear the Leader pacing the floor a few feet in front of them. The dripping continues.

Suddenly candles erupt into flame around them, lighting up the room. Gas candles all triggered by a single switch. In front of them is a grotesque image.

There, right behind the Leader is a body strung up by wires to the ceiling. The body is a young man, in his 20's like the others, still dressed in his suit from the day of work. Protruding from his neck are two needles, blood slowly dripping from them into a pool below, which already has a pint of blood Sherlock estimates.

John suddenly realizes something horrifying- the man is not dead yet. It is slight, but there is a rising and falling of his chest. He is slowly bleeding out from two holes in the neck. John tries to point it out to Sherlock but one look at the detective tells him that Sherlock has already made the realization. His eyes are fixed on the man, who is letting out weaker breaths by the minute.

The Leader suddenly goes silent and stands with his back to his victim, facing John and Sherlock. "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, I thought our paths would cross one day,' he says with a twisted smile. John feels his heart drop- how could he possibly know who they are?

Sherlock fixes a calm expression on his face. "I'm sorry; I don't seem to recall ever meeting you," he says sarcastically, "What was your name again?"

The Leader laughs, a cold sound that sends chills down John's back, "I am the Leader, I am the savoir, I am the believer, I am the machine to the Master's bidding. All of this, all of them," he gestures to the body, "Are for him!"

His voice quiets and his eyes fix on Sherlock, "And you- you are my greatest gift to him."

"Who is Master? I want a name," Sherlock orders.

"No, you will meet him soon. But first I must prepare you."

"As pleasant as that all sounds, I think I will be leaving now," Sherlock says coolly and walks towards the door. John follows Sherlock, walking backwards with his eyes on the Leader, who is watching them with gleeful interest.

Sherlock confidently pushes down the handle. It doesn't move more than in inch. He jiggles it a moment, but sure enough it is locked. He sighs, keeping a disinterested look, "So what is it- are you going to kill us?"

"Kill you?" the Leader laughs, "How boring, no I am not going to kill you. Well I might kill him," he gestured to John with a smirk. "Master has much better plans for you, Sherlock."

"Yes, yes the mysterious master who knows everything about me. Tell me, if this _master_ wants to meet me so badly, why hasn't he done so? 221B is wide open, it'd hardly be a challenge for someone as intelligent as master to come find me."

"My dear Sherlock, you and I both know it's all about the game," the Leader says and with that he turns towards the corpse. He runs a hand down the man's cheek, his finger trailing down to the point of his neck where the needle sticks out. He puts a finger up to the hole and a single drop of blood drips onto it. His eyes fix on the perfect sphere of blood and then he brings his finger to his mouth, tasting it. He smiles with his sharpened canines fully revealed.

He reaches into his billowing robes and pulls out a gun. He turns lazily and points it towards John and Sherlock, a sick grin on his face. "Stand still now; it is time for my brothers to make their initiation."

As soon as he finishes the sentence the door opens and 5 men with faces concealed by dark cloaks file in. In each of their hands is a sharp blade, the metal glinting in the candle light. Sherlock steps back next to John, his hands clenching into fists.

The hooded figures surround them, all the while chanting in an increasingly loud and rapid rhythm. John stands back to back with Sherlock; his body tensed and prepared to fight.

"What are they saying?" he calls out to Sherlock.

Sherlock just shakes his head, and tenses behind John. "On the count of three," he whispers, "One, two, THREE!"

They both launch forward at the same time the door slams open. "Police, drop your weapons!" familiar voices shout. The hooded members just keep on chanting. Sherlock and John pause in the middle of the circle.

Lestrade and a slew of officers run to the men and knock the weapons from their hands then forcibly hand cuff them. The Leader backs against the wall, his gun flicking back and forth between targets. Three agents stand before him, guns aimed at his chest but eye's fixed on the horrifying scene behind him.

"I am the Leader, I rule the fire and smoke, fear me!" he shouts, his eyes filled with insane energy.

"Drop your weapon!" Lestrade orders; joining his agents who all straighten up with the arrival of their boss, snapping back into the moment.

Suddenly the Leader launches himself sideways into the strung up body. He grabs his neck and bites down hard just above the needles just as Lestrade empties him gun into him. He falls, his head landing in the small pool of blood with a sickening crack. The room falls silent, the officers stop shouting and the cult members stop chanting. All stop to stare at the scene before them, an image that will never leave them.

Lestrade is the one to break the silence, "Okay, get the maniacs out of here," he calls to his officers. They don't need to be asked twice, quickly removing themselves from the room. John remembers and rushes to the body, yelling at Lestrade to call an ambulance.

John takes Lestrade's knife, and saws away at the body. He finds Sherlock beside him, helping him lower the man to the ground. Thankfully he is still unconscious; he will have no memory of the event. John quickly scans him for any injuries and takes his vital signs.

When he is confident he is not in danger of dying he checks out the neck wounds. Removing the needles would only cause more blood loss so John leaves them. Next to them, there is already a large bruise forming where the Leader had made his final attack. Thankfully he hadn't broken skin.

Once he is sure that he is done all he could, John lets out a deep breath and stands. Sirens already blare in the distance. He looks around the cramped room to see officers busy at work photographing and cataloging evidence. Sherlock is near the door, arguing with someone like normal. This time it is with Lestrade. John walks over to listen to the conversation, leaving an agent to watch over the victim.

"We were fine," Sherlock says with a deep scowl. John remembers their conversation from last week and wonders how frequently Sherlock puts himself in life- threatening situation.

"Donovan said you two were about to be sacrificed by a cult ritual."

Sherlock's scowl deepens at the mention of Sally. "How did she even know we were here?"

Lestrade gives him a mocking look, "The murderous barber, Sherlock? You really thought I would fall for that?"

John decides to save his new friend from further embarrassment, "Do you need a statement?" he asks Lestrade.

Lestrade glances around the room with a shudder, "I'm sure we can take it tomorrow, we have plenty of things to do here…"

Sherlock is walking out before he even finishes the sentence. John pauses to make sure the newly arrived EMTs get the victim safely on the stretcher, before jogging after him. They track down their clothes quickly (and John's gun), before they can be catalogued by the officers. Sherlock doesn't speak until they are outside of the church.

"Another case well solved," he says with a triumphant smile and turns towards the street. "Shall we start home?"

Even though it was far from a case well- solved, John smiles back. He has a million questions running through his head- like who Victor Trevor is, and who the hell is this Master that is intent on receiving Sherlock Holmes- but he keeps them to himself as he follows Sherlock to a taxi.

The first official day as a member of 221B is gone in a flash. They return and Mrs. Hudson makes them Pot Roast. They sit around the cramped table covered in various half- finished experiments. Mrs. Hudson does most of the talking, but it is comfortable and John feels happy for the first time in a while. He hadn't realized how alone he had been.

Across the table similar thoughts are running through Sherlock's head, only at a much faster pace. He decides that John makes a good partner, and is slightly more intelligent and less irritating than the average person. He decides to keep John around, which shouldn't be hard considering his addiction for adventure. Sherlock Holmes' life has no shortage of adventure.

John wakes up to morning light streaming in through his windows, and this time he knows exactly where he is. Surprisingly, no nightmares had haunted his sleep. He knows they will come again; the nightmares never really leave him.

He makes his way downstairs to find Sherlock still laying on the couch. He would think that he was asleep if it wasn't for his odd position, his hands pressed against his lips, his body curled awkwardly to fit in the small sofa.

John decides it's best not to disturb the detective and goes to make a cup of tea. Nearly half an hour later it is time for his therapist visit. It doesn't look as if Sherlock has even moved a muscle. Before leaving John pauses at the door.

"I'm going out," he calls out to Sherlock, watching for any reaction. Sherlock is still as ever. John smiles to himself and then walks out, feeling dread slowly build in him at the thought of his therapist.

John is not ten feet down the block before he feels a prickly feeling in his back. He glances over his shoulder; he knows this feeling all too well from his time in Afghanistan. He is being watched.

People mill the sidewalks around him, none of them lingering or paying any attention to him. Still, John has learned to trust his instincts. He starts back down the sidewalk, this time more alert.

It doesn't take long for John to identify the source of his feeling. A dark van drives slowly down the street, staying a few feet behind him. Taxis honk from behind it, but it keeps its pace. The windows are tinted so John can't make out the driver.

John weaves in and out of people while picking up his pace, cursing that today of all days he had decided to leave his gun at the flat. The van never loses sight of him, following him steadily. John crosses through the first alley he sees, the width much too small for a car to fit through.

John lets out a breath on the other side. He crosses the street and through a few more alleys, then reorients himself and starts back towards his psychiatrist's office.

John turns onto the street before the office, lost in thought about who could have been following him. He had only been back in London for a few months, hardly enough time to make enemies. He is just about to amount the whole thing to paranoia when he hears a car pull up behind him. He doesn't even have to turn to know who it is.

John is tempted to run, but the streets are full so he doubts there is any imminent threat to his life. He turns to the car with a barely stifled sigh. The rear window rolls down revealing a young woman typing away on a cellphone. She looks up at John with a disinterested expression on her face, "Get in."

John gives her an incredulous look, "I don't think I will; thanks."

She gives John an irritated look, "My employer wishes to speak with you."

"And who is your employer?"

The woman sighs, "Who is James Parkings?"

That is all it takes. John stiffens, opening his mouth as if to say something but finding himself at a loss of words. "Now get in," the woman orders.

John obeys, getting in once she slides over. They ride in silence, John's whole body tensed as he memorizes their route. This is really not a good day to forget his gun.

About ten minutes later they pull up in front of a warehouse. The car stops and John looks over at the woman whose nose is still stuck to her cell. "So…" he starts.

"You can get out now," she says without even looking up from her phone.

John sighs and opens the car door. He steps out, considering running again but deciding against it. After all, whoever her employer is he knows about the Parkings' case. And more importantly, John's involvement in it.

Before John can ask where exactly he's supposed to go the car pulls away, leaving him alone. He walks to the closest door, which is a few inches ajar. It pushes open with a loud creak. He winces, then cautiously walks into the warehouse.

The door enters into a small room. Sunlight filters in through dirt stained, cracked windows. The floor is covered in layers of dirt and grime that muffle John's footsteps as he moves forward. In the center of the room is a wooden chair. Behind that chair stands a tall man in an expensive-looking suit. He stands with his back turned to John, leaning against a black umbrella. John would laugh from the theatrics of it all if the man hadn't known his secret.

"Doctor Watson." The man turns to him, "How nice to finally meet you." His voice is as cold and insincere as his eyes that bear into John. His intelligent gaze almost reminds him of a certain detective he had just made acquaintances with, but they are much colder, and impossibly more intelligent.

"Can't say the same about you," John says coldly.

The man chuckles, "Ever the soldier, aren't you? Take a seat." He gestures to the chair.

"I think I'll stand thanks." John stands straighter, a challenge in his stance.

The man quirks his eyebrow at that but doesn't comment. "It has come to my attention that you have become the flat mate of Sherlock Holmes."

"And that is your business because…?"

"I would like to offer you a job…"

"Not interested," John cuts him off.

The man gives him an annoyed look, "I would offer you considerable compensation to keep an eye on Sherlock, which we both know you need." He eyes John's clothes with distaste.

"Is that all? Because I think I will be going now."

"All I would require is for you to report back to me what Sherlock does; you wouldn't need to inquire into anything personal."

"Why do you want to know what Sherlock does?" John asks, wary of the man who seems to know so much about him and Sherlock.

"I care…very deeply about Sherlock's safety, even though I doubt he would regard me in that way. In fact, I would say that he would consider me his enemy, his arch enemy to be specific."

"If you care about him so much, why don't you keep an eye in him yourself?" John asks, growing impatient with the conversation.

"It is not that simple…" the man insists.

"The answer is no," John responds with finality.

The man studies him. "You are very loyal very quickly," he remarks.

"Can I go?" John asks, not responding to his comment.

"The car will pick you up and drop you off at you therapists, I'm afraid you are a few minutes late at the moment."

John feels his neck prickle at that comment, but he forces himself to turn and walk out. Whoever this man is, he is certain that Sherlock will have a solution for him. The car pulls up for him right on time, with the same woman in the back still busy on her cell phone.

While John is busy dealing with the British government, Lestrade is deep at work at his desk. He shuffles through a file of coffee stained papers, his brow creased in concentration. The Parkings' Case had been on backlog for the past few days, but now that the insane cult is taken care of Lestrade needs to get back to it.

He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face and reads through the autopsy report again. In his opinion, the person responsible should be given a metal, but the law is the law, and whoever is responsible had run away from the scene so he must have been hiding something.

Lestrade decides to go a different route, requesting security footage from nearby streets that night. Hopefully at least one of them had caught something.

A few hours later Lestrade is certain that he has found something. He quickly dials the number he knows by heart, ready to show his favorite consulting detective what he had found.

Sherlock is deep in a conversation with John when he is rudely interrupted by his phone going off. "John, can you get that for me?" There is no response. "John!" Sherlock says louder. He opens his eyes to find the flat empty with John's chair clearly empty for little over an hour. He sighs, that explains why the conversation had been rather one- sided.

He flops off of the couch; then climbs over his chair in search of his phone. After dumping a pile of papers to the ground and breaking a few glass slides he finds it with a missed call from Lestrade and a few texts.

He deletes all the ones from Mycroft without reading them and goes straight to Lestrade. _I found something on the Parkings' case_ is all it reads, but it is enough to send cold panic through Sherlock. He drops his phone on the table with a growl and throws on his coat. He is not about to lose the first flat mate who had put up with him for longer than a day.

Once at the Yard, Lestrade shows him the security footage that captures John. Thankfully, he runs into the same problem that Sherlock had- John's face is obscured from view. Sherlock watches the videos in feigned in disinterest, nearly sighing in relief when the video outside the café doesn't show up. Lestrade hadn't tracked John back that far yet.

The room goes silent once the video ends. Sherlock knows Lestrade wants him to say something, but he keeps his mouth shut. The less he talks about the Parkings' case the better. "So what do you think," Lestrade finally asks.

"It's a dead end," Sherlock states with his normal grating tone.

"What do you mean?" Lestrade gestures to the screen, "That's him; I've got him on tape! It shows him entering the alley right before the shot goes off."

"Yes, and who is he?" Sherlock growls, trying to keep any hints of emotion out of his voice, "His face is obscured, it's a _dead end_."

Lestrade narrows his eyes at him, "What's wrong with you?"

"This case is a three, Lestrade. It is a waste of my time, I don't know why you insist on pulling me in repeatedly when I've told you I'm not _interested_!" Sherlock huffs, a deep scowl darkening his face.

"If it's such an easy case then why don't you solve it yourself?" Lestrade demands, not letting the detective off the hook yet. Really, he is like a toddler prone to tantrums.

Sherlock takes a breath, and glowers at Lestrade. "I already said," he states slowly, a dangerous rage in his voice, "Look for a soldier." With that Sherlock storms out, hiding the fear with anger. He cannot let Lestrade put the pieces together.

Lestrade watches Sherlock leave, his mind spinning. It's not like this is the first time Sherlock has acted like this… but this time it felt different to Lestrade. He may not be as clever as the detective but he does have one thing he prides himself over Sherlock- his gut. And something doesn't feel right about this.

Lestrade settles back down at his computer, his face set. He will find the person responsible and figure what in the world he has to do with Sherlock.

John's therapist spent the first ten minutes lecturing him about being late. Something about responsibility and taking on tasks in life- John's mind is too stuck on the man from the warehouse to pay any attention to it. If his psychiatrist knew anything she would know that John has the military engrained into him and he would never willingly be late to something. It only proves to John that he should continue to disregard her words.

His therapist finally seems to finish her rant. She flips through some papers, probably reviewing their past sections. She pauses on one, "John, have you done any writing lately?"

John had completely forgotten about her suggestion to write things down. The day she had told him that another man in his old company had died, he'd had more important things to think about. John hesitates and his therapist sighs.

"Writing down what happens to you could really help you, you know."

"Nothing happens to me," John answers automatically but is suddenly reminded of Sherlock. Plenty had happened to him in the past few days- solving two murder cases, killing two people, getting a new flat mate…

"What are you smiling about?" his therapist asks. John hadn't even realized he was smiling.

"I met someone…" he starts when the alarm that their time is up goes off. His therapist sighs (just when he was starting to open up!)

"I will see you next week, just please at least _try_ to write something down," she says in a tired voice.

John nods automatically to her, but now that he thinks about it, maybe he will write something. A blog perhaps, because the world definitely needs to hear about Sherlock Holmes- and the Science of Deduction certainly doesn't cover it.


End file.
